soul who remembers the sound of her voice.
So, when my son, Ryan, invited us for Christmas, I didn’t just shower; I detailed my life. I scrubbed the grease from my fingernails. I brushed Buster’s thinning coat until it was soft as silk. I put on his special red bowtie—the one Mary bought him for his first Christmas.
“We’re going uptown, buddy,” I whispered,continue reading …
