A set of pearl earrings came out first. Clearly used, perhaps long ago. The gold had blotted; the pearls lost their shine. They still had potential, though. A good wipe could bring them back into shape.

Then, a photograph. It was of me, and my husband Daniel, in black and white, standing on the U.S.S. Texas in 1946. He'd come back from the war a year earlier. Daniel was afraid of flying again but could stomach a ship. We looked so happy then.

Next was a silk white dress. It was the one I wore when we first met. The years showed up in small stains and a tear at the hem. It would do more justice on a younger, leaner woman by now.

Then she pulled out a pillow. That was strange. Why should I care about a pillow? There was something familiar about it, but I couldn't reach it in the back of my mind.

Finally, she produced a newspaper, or rather, a clipping. Daniel's obituary. March 19, 1985. Gone like that. Would I cry again? Wasn't 20 years of pain enough?

"Why are you showing me these things," I asked her.

She spoke no words, but instead backed into the flames. As the curtains burned I felt the heat against my chair. It was all about to be over, and there we were, just thinking it was all about to start. Who knew we were at intermission?