Jeremy rarely spoke about his father.
I knew there had been an accident.
I knew he had used a wheelchair afterward.
I knew he’d died when Jeremy was young.
But I didn’t know what Jeremy remembered most.
“I was seven,” he said.
“Before the accident, Dad and I built things every Saturday.”
I remembered the little wooden airplane wrapped in a towel in our bedroom.
“We started an airplane. It wasn’t finished when he got hurt.”
Jeremy swallowed.
“Afterward, he stayed in his room. I took the airplane to his door and asked if we could finish it.”
“What did he say?”
“Go away.”
I held his hand.
“I tried again the next Saturday. And the next.”
He looked toward the stroller.
“Eventually, I stopped knocking.”
