Page 78 of Before I Let Go

“She’s good.” He bites into a roll and chews a little before going on. “She and her family went to spend Thanksgiving with her husband’s people in Memphis. They’ll do Christmas here.”

He pauses and looks at me. “I sure do appreciate y’all having me over. The holidays is when we miss the ones we’ve lost the most, ain’t it?”

It strikes me that I’m not the only one missing Aunt Byrd today. Trying to figure out how to make it without her. Harsh lines bracket Milky’s mouth and dent his forehead. For the first time since I’ve known the man, he looks his age.

“I’m glad you’re here, Milk,” I say softly. “You know you’re always welcome.”

Before things get awkward, we both slice into our turkey, which Carole always seasons perfectly. I scoop up some of the stuffing. As soon as the food hits my tongue, I freeze, fork suspended between my mouth and the plate. I put the fork down and take my time, savoring the stuffing for another moment, testing it.

“Carole,” I say, frowning. “Your stuffing is delicious. It tastes like…”

Byrd’s.

I don’t say it aloud because I don’t want reminders of loss today, but a wave of nostalgia washes over me. Not accompanied by grief, but wrapped in joy. The flavors explode in my mouth, exactly as only Byrd’s ever tasted, and she could be seated here, glowing with the pleasure of cooking food for those she loves.

“I didn’t make the stuffing,” Carole says.

“Wow.” I shift my eyes to Vashti. “You did a great job, V. I haven’t had stuffing this good in a long time.”

“I didn’t make it either,” Vashti says a little stiffly. “And what about my stuffing on the menu? You said you loved it.”

“Oh, I do, but if you didn’t make this, then who—”

“I made it,” Yasmen says from the other end of the table.

“You?” I ask disbelievingly. Her mouth tightens and she casts a self-conscious look down the row of people half eating, all listening. “I didn’t mean it like that, Yas. I just…it tastes exactly like Byrd’s.”

The tightness around her mouth eases, and a small smile lifts the corners. “I used her recipe.”

“You have it?”

“When we were going through her things,” Yasmen says, piercing a mound of macaroni and cheese with her fork. “I found a notebook with some of her recipes. Handwritten.”

Everyone is listening and I should probably save my inquisition for later, but I need to know. There are some recipes Byrd didn’t use for Grits but reserved for family and friends, almost like she kept something special for us. This particular version of her stuffing is one of them. Vashti has since reshaped Grits’s menu into her own creation, so the food we serve now doesn’t truly reflect Byrd’s. I have photos and keepsakes and all kinds of things Byrd left for me to remember her by. Hell, I even have her dog, but her food? I can’t ever have that again. Not quite the way she prepared it, so anything even close is something to be treasured. And to see the recipes handwritten—priceless.

Yasmen shrugs, lowers her gaze to her plate, and smiles ruefully. “It just made me feel closer to her, I guess. We all know I’m not a great cook, but—”

“It’s delicious.” I ignore everyone else at the table and hold her eyes, trying to convey my gratitude from all the way down here. “I’d like to see the notebook sometime.”

I slowly realize everyone’s stopped eating, and they’re all looking from Yasmen to me with varying degrees of curiosity. Everyone except Vashti, whose eyes are fixed on her lap, back ramrod straight.

“Anyway,” I say, hoping to dispel the sudden tension. “This turkey is great, too, Carole, as usual.”

“Thank you,” Carole answers, flicking a searching gaze to her daughter.

“Now that you mention it,” Milky says, taking a forkful of the stuffing. “It does taste like Byrdy’s. I’mma need to see them recipes, too, Yas.”

“Anytime.” Yasmen laughs, her eyes warmed from Milky’s approval. “Now, Kassim, Grandma made your favorite. How’s that sweet potato casserole?”

With that pivot, everyone returns to their plates, grunts of satisfaction punctuating the hum of conversation at the table.

“These salmon croquettes are so good,” I tell Vashti in a low voice, reaching under the table to take her hand. It feels disingenuous somehow, like I’m only touching her to reassure her of something, but she squeezes my fingers back and lifts her head to give me a half-hearted smile.

“Thank you.” She takes a sip of the sweet tea at her elbow. “Now tell me more about this trip to Charlotte.”

“We leave Saturday,” I say, keeping my tone flat and neutral. I’ve deliberately not given much thought to the trip. “It’s really quick. We’ll fly back Sunday afternoon.”

“‘We’ being you, Harvey, and Yasmen? You’re all flying out Saturday?”

---