I’m 81, and until a few weeks ago, I thought I had already buried everyone I ever loved.
First my husband, Walter. Then my daughter, Eileen. Same accident. Same phone call. Same day my life split in half.
After that, it was just me and my grandson, Calvin.
Every Sunday at noon, I’d hear the screen door and then his voice.
He was 17. Tall, strong, always in motion. Captain of his basketball team. The kind of boy who somehow managed to be popular without ever becoming cruel. His school was just across the state line, close enough for him to come every Sunday, far enough that I only knew pieces of the life he had there.
Every Sunday at noon, I’d hear the screen door and then his voice.