The grocery store aisle was a gauntlet of neon-colored cereal boxes and towers of pasta sauce, but Arthur moved with the single-minded focus of a man on a holy quest. His hand-written list contained exactly one item, underlined three times in shaky blue ink: Buy canned pumpkin.
At the checkout, the teenager behind the register looked at the solitary can and then at Arthur’s windbreaker. "Making a pie, sir? A bit early in the year, isn't it?"
He reached the baking aisle. It was a desert of white flour and granulated sugar. His eyes scanned the shelves, skipping over the evaporated milk and the jars of molasses. There, tucked behind a stray bag of chocolate chips on the very bottom shelf, sat a lone, dust-mantled can. The label was a vibrant, defiant orange.
It was April, a month of cruel rain and false springs, far removed from the cozy orange glow of October. Yet, for Arthur, time was measured in textures rather than dates. Martha’s hands had grown too frail for the heavy lifting of a kitchen, but her memory remained sharp as a paring knife. "The velvet kind, Artie," she had whispered that morning. "Not the chunky stuff. The velvet kind makes the house smell like home."
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