I stood in the funeral home bathroom and practiced Ed's eulogy into the mirror. Six times. Each time my voice cracked on the same sentence.
Ed was our family mechanic for forty-three years. He never charged me for a simple oil change, always said my money was no good there.
He kept a deck of cards in the shop for doing tricks between jobs. At Christmas he gave me that deck—said I needed a hobby. It's missing the two of hearts now. I looked for it last night, turning over every cushion.
I'm eighty-five. Never had kids. Ed was the closest thing to a brother I had, and now I'm the one left to say something.
In the mirror I saw my hands. They've been in mouths since Eisenhower was president. Now they trembled holding index cards.
Last night I played solitaire with that deck. Every time I picked up the cards, the missing two of hearts was there in the gap. Like Ed reminding me not to take it all so seriously.
I took a breath, smoothed my dress, and opened the door. Through the window I could see the tall building downtown—the only one in our city. I walked out and spoke about a man who always knew when my car needed a tune-up before I did.