Sun & Spoon by Kevin Henkes

Scott found the mop and a bucket in the basement.
    It didn’t take long to get Pa’s kitchen back to normal. And except for a soggy newspaper, a waterlogged roll of paper towels, the soaked cushions, and a few bent and broken leaves on the spider plants, there was no damage done.
    â€œSpoon,” said Pa, “will you please do me a favor?” He had been wringing out towels in the sink. Now he was wringing his hands.
    Spoon inclined his head.
    â€œWill you take a quick run through the house to see if I left any other windows open?”
    Spoon nodded.
    â€œIf you come back with a smile on your face, I’ll know you have good news. And if not, at least I’m lucky you’re both here to help me.”
    He started upstairs. The windows were either closed or open so slightly a quick wipe with his towel was all that was necessary to dry the wet areas.
    Downstairs. The study—fine. The living room—fine. The dining room—fine. The dining room. Spoon froze; he could not leave. He realized that this was his chance to make things right. He was glad he still had his backpack on. Now he shrugged it off and took out Gram’s cards. With the suns on the walls watching from every direction, Spoon replaced the cards in the breakfront.
    As he carefully, noiselessly eased the drawer closed, he weighed what he was doing in his mind. He decided not to say anything to Pa. It wasn’t the most brave thing to do—return the cards without an explanation—but it was all he was capable of at the moment.
    Right away, Spoon felt different. In two ways. Good and bad. He felt as if a great stone had been lifted from his chest. But he also felt a new stab of longing for Gram. He felt both sensations in every muscle and bone.
    Spoon entered the kitchen with a smile.
    â€œGood news?” said Pa, his silver eyebrows arched.
    â€œGood news,” Spoon replied.
    Father and son were walking back to their house.
    Spoon breathed deeply. Relief.
    â€œIf your mother hasn’t started supper,” said Scott, “let’s cook. You and me.”
    â€œSure,” said Spoon, looking down, watching so that he didn’t step on any of the many worms underfoot.
    â€œWhat should we make?”
    â€œSomething good.” Spoon thought of all his favorite comfort foods. “Something like macaroni and cheese or hot dogs.” But then the worms made him think of tiny, skinny wriggling hot dogs, cooking in a pot of smelly rainwater. “Macaroni and cheese,” he said. “Definitely macaroni and cheese.”
    The sidewalks and streets were wet. Spoon guessed that when the moon came out and the street lamps came on, the pavement would glisten. By tomorrow it will all be dry, he thought.
    Tomorrow. Maybe he’d look for something else of Gram’s. Maybe he’d find some other way to remember her. Maybe tomorrow would be a better day.

13
    M ONDAY DAWNED MISTY and cool, but the sun burned through the white haziness, warming things up and revealing a sky that was clear blue and polished like the inside of Gram’s big, old enamel bowl.
    Spoon woke early with a dream on the fringe of his consciousness. All he could remember of the dream was that he was hiding beneath a table and that the table was shrinking, pressing against his shoulders, neck, and head. By the time Spoon had sprung from bed and gotten dressed, the fragment of the dream was already lost to him, forgotten like some bit of trivia, never to be thought of again.
    He hurried downstairs to find that everyone else had risen early, too. His parents were making coffee; Joanie was setting the table. Spoon was still saying his good mornings when Pa came through the back door, carrying a white box and wearing a toothy smile.
    â€œSurprise!” he said brightly. “Bakery for everyone.”
    It caught Spoon unawares to see Pa so early—and so cheerful.
    â€œLook at my fat lip,” Joanie said proudly,