“Your aunt still makes enough food for forty people at Thanksgiving.”
Once, after my car battery died, I stood beside his headstone and said, “You would’ve laughed so hard at me. I spent twenty minutes looking for the hood release.”
Talking to a grave sounds strange until someone you love is inside one.
Then it’s the most natural thing in the world.
That’s where I first saw the dog.
I assumed he belonged to another visitor. He was medium-sized, with patchy brown-and-gray fur that looked like someone had trimmed it with kitchen scissors. One ear stood straight up. The other folded over at the tip, like it had given up halfway. He wasn’t starving, but he was thin enough to make me wonder when he’d last had a real meal.
He didn’t bark when I came up the path.
He just lifted his head and watched me.
“Hey there, buddy,” I said.
His dark eyes followed me all the way to Caleb’s grave, and that’s when I realized where he’d been lying.
