“So do I,” I said.
We stopped at seven more houses. Then we stopped at St. Luke’s, and Dad carried the last two boxes into the back of the church kitchen, where Sister Rosemary hugged him and called him a saint and he told her to hush.
The sun was coming up by then. Pink and gold over the hills.
On the way home, Dad took a turn I didn’t expect. He pulled into the cemetery on the hill behind the church.
He parked by the big oak tree. He got out. He reached into the cab and pulled out a small paper bag I hadn’t noticed.
I followed him across the wet grass to my mother’s grave.
MARTA ELISE LINDQVIST. 1949 – 2023. SHE PASSED IT ON.
I’d never noticed that last part before. I’d been to her grave a dozen times. I’d never noticed.
