Nobody asked where Christopher was at first.
They assumed he was on his way.
I let them assume it because I had no strength left to explain him.
When the funeral director asked whether we should delay anything until her son returned, I looked at the calendar and thought about thirty calls disappearing into voicemail.
“No,” I said. “She waited long enough.”
That evening, I placed the urn above the fireplace.
The house looked exactly as it had before.
Christopher’s shoes were by the back door.
His unopened mail sat in a neat stack on the kitchen counter.
A dry-cleaning ticket hung from the refrigerator under a magnet.
The ordinary shape of our life made the loss feel almost impossible.
I finally opened my hand.
A tiny silver key lay in my palm.
There was no tag attached to it.
No number.
No note.
The edges were worn smooth in some places, as though Gertrude had handled it often.
