Arthur did not make a sound.
His knees seemed to give out all at once as he sank into the nearest plastic chair.
The doctor kept speaking, but his voice sounded like it was coming from the end of a long hallway.
We drove back to Maple Street at midnight in absolute silence.
In the kitchen, the cruise tickets sat on the counter under the dim microwave light.
Down the hall, Arthur sat in the dark living room, the low sound of his weeping muffled by the heavy drapes.
By seven the next morning, the kitchen smelled of stale coffee and damp wool from our coats hanging by the door.
My mother, Peggy, stood by the stove, her fingers moving in a steady rhythm as she patted her silver hair. She poured a stream of hot water into the ceramic pot, her face clouded by the rising steam.
