I wished I could promise that finishing his father’s projects would make everything all right. But grief wasn’t something we could repair completely.
“Can I help?” I asked.
He hesitated, then offered me a cloth.
“Start here. Don’t use too much.”
I did as he instructed. For once, I didn’t try to direct the work. When we’d finished, Nathan examined
the chair.
“Dad never got to see it like this.”
“No,” I said. “But he made it because he was excited to meet you.”
Nathan turned to me.
“Was he?”
“He talked about you constantly before you were even born.”
This time, I shared another memory without waiting to be asked.
***
Three weeks later, the rocking chair stood in our living room. Frank had moved, and Nathan kept some tools, the drawer, and Michael’s notebook.
