The ferry was late. Rain slapped the deck in sheets, and the wind tried to take my hat.
I stood out there anyway. Twelve minutes across the river, but it felt longer.
In my coat pocket, the name tent card from last year’s conference. I never took it out of my jacket. Saves me from forgetting my own name at the registration table.
Today is ten years since my wife died. Nobody in the duplex mentioned it over breakfast. My son-in-law talked about the train schedule instead.
I’ve been preparing taxes for thirty-eight years. Numbers don’t lie. But I never learned how to count the quiet days.
The ferry horn cut through the fog. I let the rain soak my sleeves and thought about her hands on the rail of an old sailboat once.
When we docked, I put the name tent on the table at the conference. It said my right name. That’s something, I guess.