“Age 7. Lost his front tooth. Looks like me at that age. God help him.”
“Age 22. Getting married. He looks happy. I hope he knows how lucky he is.”
The last card was from 2012. My father and me at Opening Day, both of us in Reds jerseys, holding hot dogs, grinning like idiots.
On the back, it just said: “Last one. I wish I had told him.”
Catherine and I talk on the phone every couple of weeks. She sends me old pictures of Ruth. Ruth at her college graduation. Ruth on her wedding day. Ruth as a grandmother, laughing at something off camera. Every time I see her face, I see my father’s chin.
In the spring, the hospital called Grandma.
The administrator, Mr. Perkins, wanted to put up a small plaque in Room 214. Under the window. He asked her what she wanted it to say.
She thought about it for a whole week. Then she called him back.
