Maybe grief makes people easier to guide. Maybe I trusted the woman Frank had spent so many years trying to reconnect with more than I should have.
Whatever the reason, I stayed home.
Claire organized the cremation.
The days between Claire’s call and the arrival of the urn passed in a blur. People brought casseroles I barely touched. Neighbors knocked on the door, spoke softly, and told me stories about Frank that I already knew. At night, I would wake up and reach toward his side of the bed before remembering there was no reason for him to be there. I kept thinking about his suitcase, his favorite sweater, and the reading glasses he had packed at the last minute. Every ordinary object seemed suddenly important because it belonged to a life that had ended somewhere I had never seen.
I also replayed my final conversation with him. Frank had called from Claire’s house the night before he died. He sounded tired but cheerful. He told me Claire had made dinner, complained that her coffee was terrible, and promised he would bring me something ridiculous from the airport gift shop. Nothing in his voice suggested fear. Nothing sounded like goodbye. That made the silence afterward even harder to understand.
