We visited at Christmas. And Easter. And birthdays.
Harold didn’t like it much. He said the house was nice but it didn’t have a porch.
“Where do you sit in the morning, Danny?” he asked once.
“I don’t sit in the morning, Dad,” Daniel said. “I go to work.”
Harold looked at him for a long time.
He didn’t say anything.
Harold died two years ago.
In March. A stroke. On a Saturday morning.
On the porch.
In his rocker. With his blue mug.
I found him at seven-fifteen. When I came out with the honey he’d forgotten.
The mug was still warm.
It was his second cup.
Daniel came down from Scottsdale that afternoon.
He stayed for the funeral. He handled the arrangements. He was good at it. Efficient. Calm. He made a spreadsheet.
After the funeral, he sat at the yellow kitchen table with me.
