Who Bakes for the Dead

I know the handwriting of every woman in this town who has ever taped a name to a casserole. The dish itself, the cracked blue dish, I also knew. It belonged to the church kitchen, the one with the chip on the rim, the one that lived in the bottom cupboard and only came out for funerals. Which meant whoever had filled it with photographs instead of chicken had a key to the church, and had stood in that kitchen, calmly, and decided that a dead man's widow needed to see what her husband had done.