She laughed, a short and genuine sound. It was the best thing I had heard in twelve years. I drove to Charleston on a Saturday in early spring when the air had that particular quality of a day that means no harm.
Dorothy was waiting at the farmers market near the corner where the tomato vendor set up. She was wearing a green dress and her hair was down and she was looking at apples with the expression of someone who is entirely present in a small good moment. She saw me coming and straightened and did not quite smile yet, but her eyes did something.
I walked up beside her and looked at the apples and said: “Those look good.”
“They are good,” she said. “I had one last week.”
We stood there in the ordinary morning with people moving around us carrying bags of produce and coffee cups, and the sun was warm, and the day was going nowhere in particular, and neither were we. It was the closest thing to peace I had felt in longer than I could accurately measure.
She handed me an apple. I took it. We walked.
