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I never knew there was cake in there, I mumbled, stuffing a forkful of noodles into my mouth.

It was chocolate on the outside and sealed carefully in plastic.

This was from Grandma’s funeral, she told me.

I blinked. No way, I said. The marzipan one? I loved that cake.

You tried it? My mother unwrapped it.

I ate at least three pieces, I said. It was the best food at the wake by far.

She cut me a thin slice and put it on my place mat.

Most ten-year-olds don’t like marzipan, she told me. It’s Grandma’s favorite, marzipan is, she said. You must’ve gotten the taste from her.

I nibbled at its edge. It was cold and grainy from the freezer.

Delicious, I said, savoring the almond paste as it spread out in my mouth.

My mother cut herself a piece, grabbed a fork from the drying rack and sat down across from me.

Why do we have it? I asked.

She shrugged. You know some people keep pieces of wedding cake, she said, taking a bite.

In the morning, my father was holding the photograph of his father in his lap.

Edwin, I said. Handsome Grandpa Edwin.

He pulled me close to him. Grandpa Edwin had thick brown curls.

He really was an asshole, my father said.

I started laughing: loud, full laughter.

He put a hand over my mouth and I laughed into his palm.

Sssh, Lisa, he said. Don’t laugh about it.

It’s funny, I mumbled.

Don’t laugh at a dead man, he said.

I had a few left in me and I let them out, but they were half their big belly laugh size by then.

How’s the hole? I asked, when I was done. Does it hurt?

Nah, he said. It’s no big deal.

Can I see?

He raised his thin undershirt.

Can I touch? I asked. He nodded. I gingerly put my fingertips on the inner circle; his skin felt like skin.

So where do you think it went? I asked.

What, he said, the skin?

Everything, I said: the skin, the ribs that were in the way, the stomach acid, all of it.

I guess it’s all still in there, he said. I guess it’s just pushed to the side.

I think it’s cool, I said, imagining a new sports game kind of like basketball that revolved around my father.

He put his shirt back down, a curtain falling. I don’t, he said. But it didn’t kill me, he said, and I’m grateful for that.

• • •

At dinner my grandmother cooked her famous soup with tiny hot dogs floating in a thick bean broth.

I missed this soup, I said, I never thought I’d eat this soup again. This is my favorite soup in the whole world.

Hannah promptly lost a piece of bread inside and poked around the bowl with her fork.

Let’s hold hands, said my mother, before we start.

I swallowed the spoonful in my mouth.

I grabbed Hannah’s hand and my grandmother’s hand. One was soft and mushy and the other one was soft and mushy, but different kinds of soft and different kinds of mushy.

My mother closed her eyes.

We never say prayers, I interrupted.

We are today, said my mother.

I bowed my head.

So what do we say? I asked, looking down into my soup which was bobbing along. Something about bread?

Sshh, said my father. It’s a silent prayer.

No, it’s not that, said my mother, I’m still thinking.

Ow, Hannah told my father, you’re squeezing too hard.

I think we’re supposed to be thankful, I hinted.

Hannah turned and glared at me. Shut up, she said. Give her a second.

My grandmother was quiet, smelling her soup.

Needs salt, she whispered.

My mother looked up.

I’m not sure what to say, she said. Her eyebrows furrowed, uncertain.

Let’s make it up, I said. I squeezed Hannah’s hand and my grandma’s hand, and at the same time, they squeezed back.

I’ll start it, I said, and we’ll go around the circle.

My mother looked relieved. Good, she said, that sounds good.

I would like to say thanks, I began, for my parents and my sister and for the special appearance of Grandma … I turned to Hannah.

… And for Grandma’s soup which is the best soup and is way better than that fish thing we were going to eat. She faced my father.

He cleared his throat. There’s usually something about survival