His date was waiting two streets away.
He was supposed to pick her up, go to the dance, take too many pictures, eat bad food, come home by midnight, and spend the next morning pretending he had not enjoyed himself.
He never came home.
At first, we thought he was late.
Then we thought he had gotten into an accident.
Then we thought something worse.
By sunrise, police officers were sitting at our kitchen table.
By noon, my mother was still in the dress she had worn the night before, sitting beside the phone with both hands folded so tightly her knuckles had gone white.
I will not describe every hour of what followed. Some memories do not fade. They only sharpen with age.
But I will tell you the shape of it, because the shape matters.
