During Robert’s Funeral, My Sons Stood By The Casket With Dry Eyes And Perfect Black Suits…

felt as heavy as carrying Robert’s closed casket on my back.

Room 312 was at the end of the hall. Irene knocked twice. Then once. Then she opened the door.

And there he was. Robert.

Sitting by the window, pale, a blanket draped over his shoulders, and an IV line in his arm. He looked older than yesterday. Smaller. But alive.

“Terry,” he whispered.

I approached continue reading …