preserves.
When I returned, he was sitting on the porch in his wheelchair with a blanket across his knees.
“You bought the wrong coffee,” he said.
“It’s the same coffee I always buy.”
“Then the company changed the package.”
“Do you want me to return it?”
“No. I need something to complain about next Sunday.”
Inside, I unpacked the groceries.
Ezra sat at the kitchen table, watching me place everything in the cabinets. His hands trembled slightly when he reached for the coffee pot, so I carried the cups.
For