“I know.”
Those were the last words she ever said to me.
The next morning, Evelyn was gone.
The quiet after someone dies is very loud.
I finally understood what she had meant.
The house became unbearable.
Her slippers by the bed.
Her teacup in the sink.
Her gardening gloves on the porch rail.
Her handwriting on the grocery list.
Buy peaches if they look sweet.
I kept expecting to hear her humming.
I kept expecting her to call from the kitchen.
“Daniel, would you mind opening this jar?”
“Daniel, come see the roses.”
“Daniel, you are tracking sawdust through my hallway again.”
But there was nothing.
Only silence.
And then came the funeral.
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