The rain warped the paperback on the windowsill. I didn't notice until tonight.
It's my stepson's old horoscope book. He left it here the one summer he stayed with me, after his mother remarried. I was never good at being a stepparent. Too many nights on the road, too little to say.
He's been gone three years now. Not dead—just gone. Last I heard he was in Oregon. That's a thousand miles from this beach town.
The clock says 8:07. Visiting hours at the county hospital end at nine. There's no one for me to visit there, but I think of his mother—my wife—who died in that hospital six winters ago. She was the one who loved me despite my long silences.
I open the book to her sign, Taurus. The pages stick where the rain got them. The horoscope for August 15, 1997: 'A patient heart will see its reward.' I read it three times.
Then I flip to his sign, Pisces. The horoscope for someone who's not here. I don't even know his birthday for sure—it's something I should have asked. The book offers a vague wish about important decisions.
I put the book back on the windowsill. The rain keeps steady. I think about the steps I never took to reach him, and how it's probably too late now, but maybe not. Maybe not.