When Mother left my sister Nancy and me, she left the apples. But she took the typewriter, hi-fi, Sinatra records. She even took the leftover meatloaf. She took these things with precision, as if her moment was passing, all too fast. As if she needed to rush into the world and things wouldn’t wait for her. I was twelve, Nancy sixteen. But Mother left the apples. She hated them. Too domestic. Mother encouraged us to stay healthy. She promised a …