I once asked him what he was doing.
“Remembering.”
“Remembering what?”
He smiled.
“Things that matter.”
I never pushed.
I trusted him.
Until his health began to fail.
By the fifth year, Richard needed a wheelchair.
His hands shook.
His voice became quieter.
I helped him dress.
I brought him his coffee.
I sat beside him in the garden.
One afternoon, we watched Emily practicing chess.
Richard smiled.
“She’ll be very good.”
“She learned from you.”
“No.”
He shook his head.
“She learned from watching you survive.”
I looked at him.
“What does that mean?”
He smiled.
“Nothing.”
But I knew it wasn’t nothing.
That night, I asked him if he was afraid of dying.
He stared through the window.
“I’ve had a long life.”
“That’s not an answer.”
He smiled.
“I’m not afraid of dying.”
“What are you afraid of?”
He was silent for a long time.
