Dear Frank, I traded an overtime shift to go to your mother’s funeral. That Saturday was double-time, but I gave it to the new hire, a nervous girl on her first day.
She needed the hours more than I did. Or maybe I needed to be there more than I needed the money.
I got the call on my landline. My phone was at four percent battery, plugged into the kitchen wall, so I could dial long distance to your county.
I drove two hours across the fields. Saw you from the back pew. You didn’t cry. Neither did I.
After, I handed your sister the gloves your mother knit for me the winter we were nineteen. Still fit perfectly.
She said, “She’d want you to keep them.” I couldn’t. But I took them back.
Now they sit in my dresser drawer. I never wear them. But I remember the feel of her hands in every stitch.
Trading that shift was the last time I got to choose something over sense. I still think it was the right call.