It sounds impossible when you say it out loud.
I knew how Walter liked his coffee, how he checked the back door twice every night, how he folded his church coat over the same chair every Sunday. I thought I knew every part of him worth knowing.
But love has a way of putting things away carefully, sometimes so carefully you only find them when it is too late to ask why.
**
The funeral was small, just how Walter would have wanted it. A few neighbors offered soft condolences. Our daughter, Ruth, dabbed at her eyes, pretending no one noticed.
I nudged her, whispering, “You’ll ruin your makeup, love.”
I knew how Walter liked his coffee.
She sniffled. “Sorry, Mama. He’d tease me if he saw.”
Across the aisle, my grandson Toby stood stiff in his polished shoes, trying hard to look older than he was.
“You okay, Grandma?” he asked, his voice low. “Do you need anything?”
I squeezed his hand. “Been through worse,” I said, trying to smile for his sake. “Your grandfather hated all this stuff.”
He grinned a little, glancing down at his shoes. “He’d tell me they’re too shiny.”
