It was a February weeknight, the kind where the cold seeps through the double-pane windows.
I was alone in the funeral home parlor, going through a desk drawer I hadn't opened in years.
Inside, I found a name badge from the hardware store. I worked there for twenty years, before I took over this place.
The badge is worn, the plastic yellowed. It still says 'Roy' in black letters.
Next to it was my wife's tomato pincushion. She used to keep it on her sewing table.
She's been gone six years now. My brother hasn't spoken to me in ten.
I don't even remember what started it. Something about the funeral for our mother.
I picked up the phone. I still knew his number by heart.
The line rang. I thought about hanging up, but I didn't.