THE EMAIL I SENT BEFORE DESSERT

one.

And it wasn’t my name.

The Word

“Diane.”

That was it. That was the word.

I stood with my hand on the doorknob, the cold brass of it under my palm, and I let it land.

Diane.

I didn’t know any Diane. Not from his work, not from the building, not from twenty-six years of Christmas cards and family reunions and his mother’s funeral. The name meant nothing continue reading …