Jack of Hearts

And then before she had a chance to turn around, the very first night of the very first Chanukah without him arrived and it was time to make the latkes that the children, the grandchildren, and the great-grandchildren, the lights of her life, were expecting her to make. So what could she do? Pull the ancient rickety metal step stool out of the pantry, that’s what. Drag it over to the corner kitchen cabinet and open it with a creak. Climb up on the top rung and stand there on her trembling legs and arthritic feet, praying not to fall. Open the cabinet door, reach up for the cumbersome Cuisinart and hug it to her chest like a child. Climb down, place the contraption on the counter, and thank God she hadn’t taken a tumble and broken a hip or worse. Catch her breath. Collapse the stepstool and put it away. Lift the lid of the food processor and find a folded piece of red construction paper inside. Recognize the shape: a voluptuous curve tapering down to a sharp point. Feel her heart race as she unfolded the note and came face to face with the slanted southpaw writing. Read out loud: “I love you a latke!” Feel her chin quaver and her eyes fill. “Oh, Jack,” she said aloud. “How could you?”

For seventy years he’d been leaving her these heart-shaped notes. Little valentines all over the house: “You’re the toast of the town!” in the breadbox, “My cup runneth over!” in...