He puts his lunch on the table, along with his water. Sitting alone he opens the brown bag, spilling out his napkin, his sandwich, his banana. A folded up sheet of yellow paper falls out, too.

He remembers loving notes his mother once put in his lunch box, back at least fifteen years ago. He unfolds the paper, curious. The words touch his heart, a break through deep defenses.

No one makes better grilled cheese sandwiches than you do. I miss them - and you.

He eats his turkey sandwich, and thinks ham and cheese is starting to sound good again.