The Morning After My Son’s Funeral An Airport Worker Called About The Bag He Left Behind

her phone in the living room, one hand working through the mail on the side table. She pulled a bank envelope halfway out and read the return address. She felt me looking. She put it down and turned toward me with an expression of such swift, seamless grief that I almost second-guessed myself.

Almost.

Upstairs, Brett’s music started. The kind that tests continue reading …