years.
Clark.
My neighbor.
I lowered the phone onto the kitchen table.
My coffee was cold.
My hands were trembling.
I told myself it was because the house was chilly.
It wasn’t.
I’m seventy years old.
I’ve buried my parents.
Most of my closest friends.
And three years ago, I buried my wife.
After that much loss, you start believing there are very few things left in the world capable of surprising you.
I was wrong.
My name is Frank.
I live at the end of Maple Court in a quiet suburban neighborhood where people wave while collecting their mail and complain when someone leaves a trash bin out too long.
My wife Ellen and I bought this house forty-one years ago.
We raised our son here.
We argued here.
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Made up here.
Celebrated birthdays.
Hosted Christmas dinners.
Grew older.
Ellen died three springs ago.
Since then, the
