I know you really loved your grandma, that you felt safe and happy with her and that she took good care of you. I remember, you told me once, that she was the best scratch cook you have ever met.

I felt your sadness, like never before. I understood, like never before. I wanted you to go deeper, but I knew you wouldn’t. Too much had happened. It was just too much and you were too tired, and it was too late, much too late to go there now.

Quiet again invaded our space. If it wasn’t so familiar it would be uncomfortable, but we had grown used to this, and I had given up on ever expecting more. I was a prisoner to your grief and there was nothing I could do about it, nothing at all.

Now there was just the sound of the tires going thump thump, thump thump, thump thump, as we drove over the expansion joints on the Mississippi River bridge, and then you said, “Jim, it’s getting dark. Let’s get home. There’s a fog rolling in.”