He looked at me like I was being deliberately slow.
“I mean walking you,” he said. “Down the middle part.”
The aisle.
Dad had been gone 11 months.
Nathan is 31. He has Down syndrome, and he and Dad were inseparable.
Saturdays in the garage.
The same coffee mug.
The same terrible jokes nobody laughed at but them.
Nathan spent most of his time with Dad.
Dad taught Nathan how to change oil, sharpen garden tools, and make grilled cheese without burning the pan.
Meanwhile, Nathan taught Dad how to stop taking himself so seriously.
When Dad died, something went quiet in both of us.
For 11 months, I hadn’t let myself think about who would stand at the back of that church with me, because every answer was wrong.
Uncle Patrick?
Too obvious.
