Not now.
Someday.
I smiled.
“Which?”
She pointed.
Blue landscape.
I wrote her name on the back.
Then stopped.
“No.”
She looked confused.
“I’ll just give it to you now.”
There.
She stared.
“Really?”
“Yes.”
Gift completed.
Choice made.
No future entitlement.
She took it home.
Sent me a photo on her wall.
Good.
At ninety-two, Tommy asked about the house.
“Do you miss it?”
“Parts.”
“Which?”
“The porch.”
Another.
“Your father’s lamp in the corner.”
Another.
“The sound of rain in the upstairs bedroom.”
There.
“Do you miss owning it?”
“No.”
Good.
Possession and memory separated.
At ninety-three, he asked:
“Do you still think of the truck?”
I did.
Less.
“Sometimes.”
“I do too.”
There.
His wound now.
Consequences do not end when paperwork does.
He continued.
“The thing I remember is you asking if it was the first time.”
There.
“Why?”
“Because I knew you already knew from my face.”
There.
Yes.
I had.
He said:
“I think that was the moment I realized I’d turned you into someone who couldn’t trust her own son or her own memory.”
There.
My eyes filled.
“And now?”
“I hope you trust one of those again.”
I smiled.
“My memory is questionable.”
He laughed.
Good.
Then I touched his hand.
“My son improved.”
There.
Enough.
At ninety-four, Sandra died.
Cancer.
I learned through Tommy.
He asked whether I wanted to know.
Good.
