When he finishes the first cup, he looks at the mug.
He looks at the sign above my head.
He reads it.
Every time.
His lips moving.
Then he holds out his mug.
“Mom,” he says. “Could I have another?”
And I make him a second cup.
Last Saturday, he brought something.
A paper bag. From a craft store.
He handed it to me.
Inside was a piece of mesquite. Raw. Unfinished. And a wood-burning tool. The kind Harold used.
“I want to make one,” Daniel said. “A sign. For our house. In Scottsdale.”
He looked at the porch.
“We don’t have a porch,” he said. “But we have a patio. By the pool.”
He looked at me.
“Will you show me how Dad did the letters?”
I looked at my son.
Thirty-nine now. Gray coming in at his temples. Holding a piece of mesquite.
The little boy on the porch steps with a juice box.
