into the void.
And sadness followed just as quickly.
Because Dwight would have understood that joke.
He had called our spare room “the desk” for twenty years, even though the only use it had ever had was to store tax receipts in a cardboard box.
The grief was cruel in that way.
He might sit quietly while you laugh, then pat you on the shoulder.
Remember me?
I turned towards the window.
Wendell must have sensed something.
He didn’t touch me.
That was one of the things I liked about him.
He never clung to sadness as if it needed fixing.
After a while, he said, “I wasn’t trying to replace anything.”
I watched it.
“Or anyone,” he added.
“I know.”
“Do you?”
I’ve thought about it.
“I think I’m starting
