I lifted the blanket from the bin and shook a small piece of tissue from the border.
Nobody moved.
A woman near the window stared into her lemonade glass as if it might save her from choosing a side.
Madison’s mother busied herself with the knife beside the cake, though no one had asked her to cut it.
The friend recording lowered the phone a few inches, but not all the way.
I folded the blanket against my chest.
I kissed Kyle on the cheek.
His skin was hot with shame.
“I’m tired,” I told him.
That was all.
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I carried the blanket out through the front door and into the late afternoon sun.
The ride home was only twelve minutes, but it felt longer because grief sat in the passenger seat the whole way.
Frank had been gone ten months.
Some mornings I still turned my head to tell him something before remembering there was no one in his chair.
