“He didn’t suffer.”
The days after dissolved into casseroles, soft condolences, and whispered prayers. Neighbors came and went. Mrs. Grant pressed a lasagna into my hands and told me I wasn’t alone.
At the cemetery, Pastor Reed offered to walk with me to the grave.
“I’m fine,” I insisted, though my knees nearly gave out.
I knelt and pressed my hand to the earth. “Owen, I’m still here, baby. Mom’s still here.”
Five years slipped by before I realized it. I stayed in the same house, buried myself in teaching, and smiled at crayon drawings that leaned crooked and bright.
“Ms. Rose, look at mine!”
“Beautiful, Caleb. Is that a dog or a dragon?”
