“It means we still have supper,” I told her. “And supper means we’re doing all right.”
“Grandpa, are we poor?”
Rose watched me from the table. “You’re tired.”
“I’m old, sweetheart. I’m allowed to be tired.”
They laughed, and I held on to that sound like rent money.
The years didn’t get easy. They got meaningful.
Rose became the one who noticed everything. If my back hurt, she’d clear the dishes before I reached for the sink.
“I’m allowed to be tired.”
May kept every birthday card and cried at commercials with lost dogs.
June fixed loose hinges, argued with rude clerks, and never let anyone talk over me.
***
By their 20th birthday, I thought I knew every corner of our little family.
Then the first package came.
No name. No return address.
I thought I knew every corner of our little family.
