A little here.
A little there.
Savings bonds bought from bonuses, overtime, birthday money he never spent on himself, and good months at work when the furnace did not break and the truck did not need tires.
I did not know how much until the week before he died.
By then, the hospital room had become its own weather.
Machines blinked.
The sheets smelled of bleach.
Frank’s hand felt too light in mine.
He asked me to bring him the old cigar box from the top shelf of his closet.
I had seen that box for years and never opened it.
I thought it held receipts, screws, or the kind of small things men save for reasons they never explain.
