The Letter Had This Week’s Postmark

11. I’d stood there on anniversaries. On bad days. Once after Maya got pneumonia at four and I was so tired I sat cross-legged in the wet grass and talked to the dirt like a lunatic.

I had paid for that stone in installments.

I knew the crack in the left corner.

The groundskeeper, a man named Pete who’d aged into his overalls, was loading mulch from a continue reading …