How our father laughed and declared that twins were the strangest creatures God had ever created.
Michael absorbed every word like a starving man being fed.
My daughter called that evening, as she did every Sunday after he left.
“He’s grieving, Rachel.”
“He’s leaning. There’s a difference.”
I gave her no answer.
Instead, I watched the porch light cast long shadows over the lawn and pretended I did not understand what she meant.
—
Then, on a Sunday in October, Michael arrived without coffee.
His eyes were swollen and red, and he remained standing.
“Marry me, Evelyn.”
I put down the teapot before it slipped from my hands.
“Michael. I am not her.”
“I know that,” he said. “But when I’m near you, I remember how to breathe. That has to count for something.”
“Please. Just think about it.”
I considered his proposal for three weeks.
My son drove in from the city one Saturday solely to sit opposite me and speak plainly.
“You’re lonely, Mom. That is not the same as loving him.”
“I know the difference.”
My closest friend, Marlene, said nearly the same thing, though more gently, while we drank wine on her back porch.
“Grief wears a lot of masks, honey. Sometimes it wears a wedding ring.”
