The soccer trophy on our mantle has a broken figurine. His father never fixed it, and neither did we.
Two years ago, during the week the clocks changed, I was working a double in the ER. We were supposed to fly to his hometown for a funeral.
I missed the flight. Overslept after a code blue that ran until dawn. He went alone.
The plane had a mechanical delay. He rented a car instead. I was changing the clocks when the police called.
Now, every fall when the clocks change, I sit on the kitchen floor and stare at that trophy. The figurine's leg is snapped off at the knee.
No one else knows I do this. The person I've become in the dark is the one who still waits for a flight that never left.
I never fixed the figurine. Maybe I never will.