The Last Witness

The papaya sat in a ceramic bowl on Elena's desk, nearly ripe, its skin yellowing like old paper. Three days since the stroke, and here I was, the junior associate tasked with boxing up a life. Estate sale prices penciled on sticky tabs. Her assistant said I should know—Elena left explicit instructions.

Through the glass door, I could see her golden retriever, Max, waiting in the car. Her ex-husband was taking him, couldn't bear to look at the dog. Every time Max had sprawled under Elena's desk during depositions, she'd called him her co-counsel. I wondered if dogs understood that their people weren't coming back, or if they just waited.

I'd called Elena my friend for eight years, but standing in her office, I realized how thin that word had stretched. We'd celebrated promotions together. We'd drunk wine at firm holiday parties and complained about billable hours. But I didn't know she kept a framed photograph of her mother on her windowsill, or that she wrote quotes on index cards—*Courage is resistance to fear*, this one said—or that she bought papayas every Tuesday, eating them with lime and salt while reviewing briefs.

Elena's favorite straw hat rested on the coat rack. She'd worn it to court once, and the judge had smiled. That was Elena—finding joy where others found procedure. I tried it on. My reflection in the darkened window: someone else's smile, someone else's confidence. The hat smelled like her shampoo, coconut and something metallic, like the old building's pipes.

My palm was sweating where I gripped the edge of her desk. I thought about all the things I'd never asked. What she'd dreamed about at sixteen. Why she never remarried. What she'd planned to do with all that money she'd saved, the firm's first female partner pulling seven figures while eating papayas at her desk.

Max whined from the car, a low sound.

I took off the hat. My fingers trembled.

Everyone dies, but someone has to be the last person to stand in a room and notice the small things. Someone has to be the final witness. That's the terrible bargain we make, loving anyone at all.

I wrote something on a legal pad, tucked it into the papaya bowl before closing the box: *Tell Max she loved him best.*

Then I turned out the light.