“For the service,” he said, and walked out.
At three o’clock, the air off the bay carried the scent of salt and low tide across the school playground. Eli sat on the green wooden bench near the swings, holding a small silver plastic spaceship he had kept in his pocket since breakfast. He was flying it through the air in wide, looping arcs, making quiet whistling sounds between his teeth.
“Did you eat your whole sandwich?” I asked, sitting beside him on the cold wood.
“The crusts were too hard,” he said, his legs swinging in that uneven beat. “But I ate the apple.”
I watched his boots swing back and forth, inches above the gravel.
“Your dad called earlier,” I said, trying to keep my voice casual. “He wanted to know how school was going.”
Eli stopped the spaceship mid-air, its plastic nose cone pointing toward the gray sky.
“He said he was busy with his new house, Mom.”
The words sat between us on the bench.
“He has a lot of work to do on it,” I said.
