I slowed down at the intersection, wondering why a man who grew up in a three-bedroom ranch on Elm Street needed someone to open his car door for him.
The kitchen clock was the only sound in the house when I sat down at the table at seven o’clock that evening.
The tea in my mug had gone cold, a thin film forming over the dark liquid.
I reached for the shelf in the hallway and brought back the 1972 Oakhaven High School yearbook, its padded blue cover smelling of old paper and basement dampness.
I flipped through the pages, past the basketball team and the library club, until I found the senior portraits.
There he was, fourth row down, his hair a little longer than the principal preferred, his smile already crooked and confident.
Under his name, the list of achievements was short: track team, drama club, and nothing else.
He looked so simple then, a boy who worked at the local lumber yard on weekends and wore flannel shirts with frayed collars.
I touched the glossy page, my finger tracing the black-and-white ink of his jawline.
