I’m eighty-one years old, and until a few weeks ago, I thought I had already buried everyone who truly belonged to me.
First, I lost my husband, Walter. Then my daughter, Eileen. The same awful day. The same phone call. The same kind of grief that makes the world feel permanently quieter afterward.
After that, it was just me and my grandson, Knox.
Every Sunday at noon, I would hear the screen door squeak, then his voice calling through the house.
“Grandma, I made it.”
He was seventeen, tall and broad-shouldered, captain of his basketball team, popular in that rare way where people loved him because he never made anyone feel small.
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