of funeral lilies and candle wax when Austin walked in without knocking.
Ernest had been gone only a week.
I buried him on a gray Tuesday in his favorite white linen shirt, his rosary between his hands and our little Key West photograph tucked into his pocket like one last private memory.
For seven days, I cried until my eyes ached.
On day eight, I bought the cruise ticket.
Not for drama.
After forty years of serving as everyone’s emergency fund, nurse, cook, driver, babysitter, backup plan, and place to
