We take the dog to deliver a misplaced letter. Right number, wrong street and so the whimsy of error finds the afternoon sun tickling my neck and my son’s hand in mine. My daughter plunges ahead, impatient for the street library with its starfish handles and silver lettering in the shade of a mulberry tree. We each choose books except for the dog and then it’s onwards up to a brick house and a garden ablaze with roses and a hatted woman pulling weeds. “Oh, that always happens” she sighs and her hat blows off showing a pale, careful face. “My husband just died. We were with friends. A massive heart attack.” I want to gasp, to look away but I meet her eyes and wonder what she sees in mine. The fear, the pity, and shock like a pinching in her that I understand now. “That’s… " She waves vaguely. " I’m waiting for his death certificate. It hasn’t come yet.” I don’t know what to say. For this woman I don’t know I would check every letterbox and wrongfully accuse a well-to-do postman. But I just shrug, an oaf in human clothing with eyes that are trying to be all my lost words.