“A taxi. A drunk driver. He didn’t… he didn’t suffer,” the officer tried.
I couldn’t remember if I said anything at all.
***
The next week vanished into casseroles and murmured prayers.
Friends and strangers came and went, their voices blending into a dull hum.
“I’m so sorry. There’s been an accident.”
Mrs. Grant from next door handed me a lasagna and squeezed my shoulder. “You’re not alone, Rose.”
I tried to believe her.
At the cemetery, Pastor Reed offered to walk with me to the grave.
“I can manage, thank you,” I insisted, even though my knees nearly buckled.
I pressed my hand to the dirt, whispering, “Owen, I’m still here, baby. Mom’s still here.”
“You’re not alone.”
***
Five years went by before I knew it.
I stayed in the same house, poured myself into teaching, and tried to laugh when my students handed me lopsided drawings.
“Ms. Rose, did you see my picture?”
“Beautiful, Caleb! Is that your dog or a dragon?”
“Both!” he grinned.
