He sat with his wife’s photo, waiting for a son who had already boarded without him

the one who sat beside him in the evenings. I read aloud from the books he had once read to me.

The Secret Garden. Of Mice and Men. Charlotte’s Web. He couldn’t always follow the plot, but sometimes his eyes would light up as if he had just opened a door that used to be locked. Those moments were rare.

They were precious. But they became increasingly continue reading …