“I am giving it to you because for eight years, I slept better knowing you lived ten steps away.”
My vision blurred.
Olive reached across and squeezed my hand.
The letter continued.
“You probably thought you were saving me from mowing.”
There was a pause between the lines.
“Justin, you were saving me from Saturdays.”
I lowered the letter.
Outside, a gentle breeze stirred Theresa’s two sunflowers.
One leaned softly toward the other.
When I could read again, I continued.
“Saturdays belonged to Harold.
He made coffee too strong.
He cut the grass in crooked lines.
He complained about my pie crust and ate two slices anyway.
After he died, Saturday became the longest day of my week.”
The room had fallen silent.
“The first morning you crossed the driveway, I truly did need help.
The second Saturday, perhaps I did not.
By the third, I understood something I was too proud to admit.”
I already knew what the next sentence would say.
