Dolores held her mug in both hands.
She looked out at the roses.
She didn’t say anything for a long time.
Then she said, “I haven’t wanted to be anywhere in two years.”
“I know,” I said.
“Not in my daughter’s garage,” she said. “Not anywhere.”
“I know.”
She took a sip.
“This is nice,” she said quietly.
Daniel comes on Saturdays now.
Not every Saturday. Most of them.
He doesn’t call first. He doesn’t need to. He just shows up. At seven-thirty in the morning. In jeans and an old Arizona State sweatshirt.
He walks up the front walk. Between the roses.
He sits down on the porch steps. Next to the swing.
I make him a cup of tea.
Earl Grey. Honey. A splash of milk.
He drinks it.
He doesn’t say much.
Neither do I.
We sit on the porch and watch the sun come up over Camelback Mountain.
