I stared at him.
“That’s all?”
“What?”
“You nearly lost your garden.”
“But I didn’t.”
“You could celebrate.”
He pushed a bowl toward me.
“Shell peas.”
Apparently that was the celebration.
Claire stayed three days.
We talked late into the evenings.
She told me about Rebecca.
Rebecca had taught third grade.
Loved mysteries.
Hated bananas.
Collected sea glass despite living hundreds of miles from the ocean.
Claire showed me photographs.
In every one, I searched for pieces of myself.
It is strange to discover resemblance in a dead stranger.
Stranger was not the right word.
Sister was not yet comfortable either.
On Claire’s last evening, she and I sat on Dad’s porch.
“He’s afraid,” she said.
“Dad?”
“Yes.”
“Of what?”
“You leaving.”
I looked at her.
“Why would I leave?”
“Because he thinks telling the truth late is sometimes the same as lying.”
“That sounds like something he would believe.”
