Saturday morning. First payday from the new job, coaching at the high school out here. The money's not much, but it's a start.
I still set out two coffee cups every morning. She's six hundred miles away, teaching third grade and waiting for the school year to end.
The seed packet she left is from a wildflower mix, three years past its plant-by date. I planted it anyway last week, dug a little hole behind the trailer, watered it every night.
Nothing's come up yet. The dirt here is mean and dry. But I check anyway, coffee in hand, two cups on the counter behind me.
I don't know why I do it. Maybe I'm scared that if I stop, I'll forget what it sounds like when she says my name from the other room.