He had no answer. For once in two years, my son had nothing to hand me and nothing to ask of me.
And standing on my own porch, with my granddaughter’s arms around my waist, I found I no longer needed him to have one.
PART 5 — FINAL
I live on Willow Creek Lane now.
The kitchen is yellow. I painted it the first week, the exact shade George always said made me look like sunshine.
The rosebushes I’d grieved are growing again along the front walk, the same variety, planted with my own hands in Arizona soil. They’re thriving. Roses are stubborn that way. So, it turns out, am I.
In the mornings, I take my tea on the wide front porch, in a chair that faces east, the way George always did, and I let the quiet be exactly as big as it wants to be. For two years I mistook silence for loneliness. Now I know the difference. Loneliness is being invisible in a crowded house. This, this is peace.
