He plays the guitar. The cheap pawn shop one. Every night. In his room. I can hear it through the wall. He’s gotten good. He’s not terrible anymore.
He’s applying to colleges. Nursing schools. He wants to be a hospice nurse.
“Somebody has to be there,” he said. “When people are dying alone. Somebody has to change their bandages and make them soup and sing to them. Even if they’re terrible at singing.”
Cole is applying to the same schools.
Ezoic
He wants to be a social worker. Like Marguerite.
Ezoic
Marguerite wrote him a recommendation letter. She wrote one for Nathan too. I read them both. I cried.
Cole keeps Bumblebee, the little wooden car, on the dashboard of his truck. He got it back. Like he said he would.
He still makes chicken soup every Saturday. From scratch. Denise’s recipe. He brings a thermos of it to the VA hospice on the fourth floor. The same unit where Greg died. He sits with whoever doesn’t have visitors.
