“I figured I’d better make an effort.” She patted the chair. “Sit down, Gordie.”
I sat. I set the lemon drops on her tray. She looked at the bag and smiled.
“You remembered.”
“You only told me forty-eight hours ago.”
“Still.” She folded her hands on the blanket. “The doctors gave me the numbers this morning. They think I’ve got about a week. Maybe a little less. Maybe a little more if I’m ornery, and you know I’m ornery.”
I couldn’t say a word.
I’ve sat in that chair across from a hundred families getting that news. I’ve held their hands and prayed with them and known exactly what to say. I’ve said it so many times the words are worn smooth.
Not one of those words came to me now.
There was a lump in my throat the size of a fist. I looked at the lemon drops because I couldn’t look at her. I thought about how long I’d been on this earth without her, and how long I was going to be on it without her again, and how impossibly short the space was in between.
