A breeze carries Chow’s Chinese Restaurant up the block depositing the entire menu through the windows of our second floor walk-up on the odd chance I have forgotten you. I remember your steaming egg drop soup on hot August nights and how you always attempted to share with me. Now I wish I’d tried some – for you. Instead of flowers, you gave me egg rolls, sometimes stopping by Chow’s on the way home from the subway. They ask about you when I go there. They look at my still bare ring finger, interested, meaning well. But I don’t know the words, can’t muster the courage, know I’d start crying if I told them you passed away four months ago. So I tell them I do this for you – pick up the order – which contains your chopsticks for our cashew chicken, your egg drop soup, one egg roll and your fortune cookie – there beside mine.