I thought about him making apple pancakes on a Saturday morning for a four-year-old who didn’t know any of this yet.
I thought about thirty years of questions he had carried alone.
“He should have told me sooner,” I said.
“Yes,” Miriam agreed.
“He should have.”
“I would have helped him.”
“I know.” She set her cup down.
“He knew that too.
I think that’s what frightened him.
He didn’t want you carrying it.
He wanted to protect you from the weight of it for as long as he could.”
“He couldn’t carry it alone forever.”
The funeral was on a Thursday, ten days after Frank passed.
Miriam stood beside me at the graveside.
She had Frank’s eyes and his way of going still when something mattered, and standing next to her felt like standing next to a part of him I hadn’t known existed until a week ago.
