He still owes me twelve dollars.”
I laughed through my tears.
Arthur looked at me.
“I was hoping he had forgotten about that.”
I laughed harder.
Then I cried.
Not the way I had cried at Robert’s funeral.
This felt different.
Like grief and relief had somehow entered the same room.
For years, I had carried a quiet guilt whenever I enjoyed something Robert would never get to experience.
Selling the house.
Traveling alone.
Being happy.
Part of me had believed moving forward meant leaving him behind.
And there he was, in his own handwriting, telling me to go.
Arthur and I talked until the coffee became cold.
He told me stories about Robert I had never heard.
Robert falling asleep during a jazz concert.
Getting lost while insisting he knew exactly where he was.
Trying to cook fish over a campfire and dropping it into the dirt.
“That sounds like him,” I said, laughing.
