the people Gertrude would have wanted called.
Nobody asked where Christopher was at first.
They assumed he was on his way.
I let them assume it because I had no strength left to explain him.
When the funeral director asked whether we should delay anything until her son returned, I looked at the calendar and thought about thirty calls disappearing into voicemail.
“No,” I said. “She waited long enough.”
That evening, I placed the urn above the fireplace.
The house looked exactly as it had before.
Christopher’s shoes were by
