I took his hand, and we sat there in the quiet. Some truths don’t need more words once they reach the place they were meant to land.
Before I left, I made Harris tea, set soup to warm on the stove, and wrote my number on a notepad by the bed.
“Call me if you need anything.”
“She’s in every room of this house.”
He looked at the number, then at me. “You’re bossy enough to be somebody’s daughter.”
I managed a shaky smile. “Good. Get used to me.”
Harris leaned back against the pillows. “I think Catherine would’ve liked that.”
***
I drove home crying so hard I had to pull over twice.
A week later, after Dan returned, we went back with groceries, medicine, a heavy winter coat, and three new pairs of boots.
Harris opened the door, looking better. He took one look at the boxes in Dan’s arms and sighed as if he knew resistance was useless.
“Good. Get used to me.”
Dan lifted a bag. “I’m just the delivery man. She’s the ringleader.”
That got the smallest smile out of Harris.
He stared at the boots without touching them. “I don’t know.”
I picked up the old, taped boots and held them gently. “You don’t have to wear these to honor Catherine. We can preserve them, wrap them, and put them in a memory box. Keeping them safe doesn’t mean you have to keep hurting yourself in them.”
Harris reached for one of the new boots and ran a thumb across the leather. “I never thought of it that way.”
“Think of it that way now, Harris.”
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