There is one container of soup left in my freezer, and my sister made it

Dear Delyara, My sister and I spent an entire Sunday making soup three weeks before she died. Neither of us knew it would be the last time. We argued about the amount of garlic, drank tea while onions burned slightly, and filled eight plastic containers because both of us were retired and apparently believed freezing soup was a serious form of future planning. I ate seven of them after she died. The eighth has been in my freezer for fourteen months. Every time I open the drawer, there it is beneath the peas, her handwriting on masking tape: LEEK & POTATO — DON’T ADD MORE SALT, JUNE. I am June. She always accused me of ruining food with salt. Tonight, the freezer stopped working. The repairman says everything needs to be used or thrown away. I moved the container into my neighbour’s freezer while he looked at me as though I had lost my mind. Maybe I have. I am eighty-one years old. I know soup cannot preserve my sister. I know eventually freezer burn will win, electricity will fail, or I will die and one of my children will throw it away without understanding. But if I eat it, there will be no food left on earth that she cooked with her own hands. Everyone says memories are what matter. Memories do not thaw in a saucepan and smell like somebody standing beside you complaining about salt.