I'm sitting in the passenger seat of my own truck. My son is driving, both hands at ten and two.
He just cashed his first paycheck from the welding shop. Bought himself a jacket that fits him perfect.
I'm wearing my brother Donny's old winter coat. The sleeves hang past my wrists. Donny was the tallest of us five kids.
We're going to your grave. It's been two years, but today I finally asked him to take me.
He didn't ask why. Just said, 'I got the truck warmed up.'
When we pull into the cemetery, he kills the engine and hands me the keys. 'You keep 'em,' I say. 'They're yours now.'
That's when I understood. Letting go isn't about forgetting. It's about passing the weight to hands that are ready.
I think you'd have laughed at me in Donny's old coat. But you'd have been proud of him.
This is the voicemail I'd leave you if your number still worked. Just wanted you to know: we're okay.