In April 2018, I returned to the neighborhood in northeast Washington, DC, where, over the course of six years at that point, I had conducted ethnographic fieldwork. It was not my first time returning. Every time I went to DC after relocating, I tried to visit, at least stopping into the small grocery store where I spent much of my time. But this visit was different for several reasons. It was the first time that I was in the city since the passing of the grocery’s owner, the person who assumes the pseudonym “Mr. Jones” in my book Black Food Geographies. He had passed away a few months prior, in January, and it was a loss that I was still making sense of. I knew he had been sick. During a visit before his passing, I noticed that his stamina was lower than usual, but I did not think it my place to ask, and he told me no more details than those necessary to convey that he had been in the hospital but was recovering. I was, as always, happy to see him, though I did not know it would be the last time on this earthly plane.