I cooked while he directed me from a chair. We watched old movies. I read aloud when his eyes grew tired.
On the eighth night, I found him holding a worn novel against his chest.
The cover was faded beyond recognition.
“What book is that?” I asked.
“My favorite.”
“May I see?”
“What book is that?”
He squeezed the book against his chest like a shield.
“Not yet.”
I teased him for being secretive.
He smiled, but he did not hand it over.
***
Carl died two mornings later with my hand beneath his.
His final breath came so gently that I did not recognize it as an ending until the room remained still.
Carl died two mornings later with my hand beneath his.
At the funeral, there were fewer than 20 people.
Most were Carl’s friends and former students. One left a paper lunch bag beside the coffin. Another left a blue birdhouse.
I thought I had given a lonely man 10 days of belonging.
I didn’t yet understand what he’d given me.
I thought I had given a lonely man 10 days of belonging.
***
