The Kansas wind was sharp that morning, dry and restless, pushing dust across the porch steps Linda used to scrub every Saturday with a bucket of hot water and vinegar. I remember that detail because grief does strange things to a man. It steals the big pieces first—sleep, appetite, faith—and leaves behind little things sharp enough to cut you open. The smell of vinegar. The squeak of the screen door. The empty hook by the door where my wife’s gardening hat used to hang.
My grandson Cody stood beside me on the porch, tall and all elbows at fifteen, his dark hair falling over one eye because he hated haircuts and I had never been able to win that argument. He had one duffel bag at his feet and his old skateboard under his arm, even though he hadn’t touched the skateboard in months.
Travis Pike, my stepson, glanced at Cody, then back at me like the boy was an inconvenient piece of furniture.
“You got the notice,” he said.
“I got it,” I told him.
“Then I don’t understand why you’re still here.”
Because my wife had been dead for twenty-three days, I thought. Because this was the house where she laughed. Because this was the kitchen where she held my hand through six rounds of chemo and told me not to you-dare-get-soft-on-her when she got too tired to stand. Because my grandson had buried his mother at eleven and my wife at fifteen, and I was trying to keep one more roof over his head.
