THE LIGHT OF THE WORLD opens with E. M. Forster’s definition of a plot and a story: “The king died, and the queen died” is plot. “The king died, and the queen died of grief” is story. By using memory and exquisite descriptions of a well-lived life with Ficre Ghebreyesus, Elizabeth Alexander tells the story of her grief and the poignant realizations of what she has lost.

Ficre was born in Eritrea, East Africa, in the midst of war with Ethiopia for independence; he left as a political refugee when he was 16 and traveled through Sudan, Italy and Germany before arriving in the United States. Alexander was born in Harlem; she was sturdy, optimistic, full of songs from the blues, which saw the world but never laid her low. Though born continents apart, they meet at a small coffee shop in New Haven and come together as one: they were not meant to survive if not to profit for others. Together their story shows great courage and great love.

In the first section, Alexander accounts for the six days before Ficre’s death. An artist friend unexpectedly spends Thursday night in their home, and, as they leave the garden the next morning after cappuccinos, the three see a giant hawk “sitting on the branch of our hundred-year-old oak tree, eviscerating and devouring a squirrel.” It is pure nature. Alexander will later find an acrostic Ficre made, with multiple variations on the word hawk.

Ficre and Alexander must tell their young boys, Simon and Solomon, about some bad news in their extended family. After school around the kitchen table, the four talk. There are tears, but there is also understanding after answering questions. There are only a few sentences about Ficre’s last Friday, but we see the decency and compassion for others built into their family structure.

"By using memory and exquisite descriptions of a well-lived life with Ficre Ghebreyesus, Elizabeth Alexander tells the story of her grief and the poignant realizations of what she has lost.... A happy ending can only come through appreciating the complexity and joyfulness of Ficre’s life, as well as lingering on the pages of Elizabeth Alexander’s beautiful memoir."

Saturday is marvelous. Solomon, Simon and Alexander mastermind a perfect surprise 50thbirthday party for Ficre, and there is true happiness as he goes to each person saying, You, and You, and You! With a smile on his face, that night he falls into a “deep, negro sleep” (Leopold Sedar Senghor’s poem “To New York”). Sunday is spent with family, but that evening Ficre leaves the house in agitation to buy lottery tickets. He has a hunch about a number. Monday is a workday, but they meet at home for lunch to help Ficre settle the circles running in his head.

On Tuesday night, Alexander comes home late from a class showing Charles Burnett short films; they are both tired but remember together the authentic acts of goodness and the curative power of black art in one of the films. It is on Wednesday afternoon that she and Simon find Ficre on the floor downstairs, with the treadmill still running. She understands later that he probably died instantly.

There is nothing straightforward about Ficre’s death. Alexander gives countless glimpses into their rich, extraordinary lives while weaving together stories of her sorrow. She pauses to ask ancient questions that are new to her. “I lost my husband. Where is he? I often wonder. As I set out on some small adventure, some new place, somewhere he does not know, I think, I must call him, think, I must tell him, think, What would he think? Think what he thinks. Know what he thinks.” Her complex answers raise questions in the reader’s mind.

She also reflects on our place in life. How do we fit in? There will always be children and there will always be old people. We spend most of our lives somewhere in between. “What is birth but death with complexity?’ wrote Michael Harper. The beginning, the end, and most of the time in the middle.

Alexander shows Ficre’s enormous vitality with touching stories of his selflessness, intelligence and curiosity. He was a master chef and co-owner with his brothers of Caffé Adulis, which introduced Eritrean cuisine to New Haven and New York City. His native understanding of food and color and art reveals itself in the dishes he creates for the clients of his restaurant, their multitude of hungry friends and, of course, his family. She includes several recipes; the first is his legendary Shrimp Barka. It is a surprise to see the list of ingredients and steps for preparation, but somehow the details of choosing produce and working in a kitchen make Ficre come alive chopping, sautéing and tasting. We consider the hands and spirit of the man who made the food.

A few weeks after Ficre’s death, Alexander finds that going back to bed after the boys have left for school allows her to wail, and wail, and then sleep. And in this deep sleep, “Ficre comes right to the edge of my dreams, no narrative, just presence.” She wishes to meet him every day in the dream-space, and she does for a short while. One dream takes her on a bus ride in Africa, and although she sees the quality of the bright light and the wide African sky, she sees this Ficre is fat. But still he hugs the boys and they fuss as a family would greet each other. In a later dream, Ficre hands her a red jacket, so that she can help him dress, and she realizes that she has never seen the jacket before and that one of his teeth is missing. But somehow it is still Ficre. He hugs her, he takes her breath away, and he says I am so sorry, Lizzy, Lizzy, Lizzy my love.

A happy ending can only come through appreciating the complexity and joyfulness of Ficre’s life, as well as lingering on the pages of Elizabeth Alexander’s beautiful memoir.