Children.
Regrets.
Loneliness.
We talked about spouses we’d lost.
***
Once, over a late lunch, Arthur said, “Nobody warns you that grief gets quieter, but it doesn’t entirely leave.”
I knew exactly what he meant.
***
After several afternoons together, he invited me to his home.
“I’ve got a whole shelf of old records you’d love,” he said. “Come for coffee, and I’ll show you.”
I trusted him.
I knew exactly what he meant.
***
Arthur’s house was warm and ordinary, filled with books, mismatched furniture, and family photos along the hallway.
“I’ll put the kettle on,” he said. “Make yourself at home.”
I stepped into the living
room and froze.
A painting hung above the fireplace.
“Make yourself at home.”
The painting was a cottage beside a lake with two pine trees leaning toward the water.
A crooked wooden dock was also featured. And in the bottom right corner, almost hidden in the grass, were the initials “R.M.”
