Arthur Michael Delaney. 1951–2026. He fixed everything.
“Arthur,” I said out loud. “I found it. Under the cushion. Where you sat.”
The wind moved through the maple trees along the cemetery road. A few orange leaves drifted down onto the grass.
“I’m still angry at you,” I told him. “I’m going to be angry at you for a while.”
I took a breath.
“But I forgive you,” I said. “And I understand. And I’m so proud of what you did.”
Daniel was crying quietly beside me.
I reached over and took his hand.
“And I want you to know something, Arthur,” I said. “I’m sitting close to him now. Like you wanted.”
Part Sixteen: The Next Spring
It’s April now.
April 14. Rose’s fortieth birthday.
The maple tree in my backyard is just starting to bud. The garden is turned over and ready for tomatoes. Arthur’s work boots are still by the back door. I’m not ready to move them yet. Kate says that’s all right.
This morning, I went to the Waffle House on Broad Street.
Darlene had saved Arthur’s booth by the window. She’d put a little vase of pink roses on the table.
Daniel was there. And Megan, his wife, a cheerful woman with red hair and a laugh like a wind chime. And little Rose, who’s ten now and has her front tooth back.
And Kate. She flew in from Denver last night with her husband and the boys. She wanted to be here.
And Eli and Mila.
I invited them. Eli and I have become friends this past year. He calls every other Sunday to check on me. He fixed my garbage disposal in January. Mila calls me Grandma Fran too now. She says she has enough grandmas for two, but she has room for one more.
