“There was no traffic.”
“Wildlife.”
“What wildlife?”
“Extremely slow squirrel.”
Eli laughed so hard he nearly dropped his helmet.
Emma tried to remain angry.
Failed.
That evening, they ate outside.
Claire’s daughters argued over dessert.
Eli showed them his motorcycle gloves.
Hank watched Emma carry plates toward the kitchen.
He followed.
She looked over.
“You survived.”
“Barely.”
“He’ll talk about that ride until graduation.”
“Good.”
Emma rinsed a plate.
“Hank?”
“Yeah?”
“Thank you for waiting.”
He leaned against the counter.
“For what?”
“Until I was ready.”
He nodded.
“I owed you.”
“No.”
She dried her hands.
“That’s what I mean.”
“You didn’t treat patience like currency.”
Hank looked through the window.
Eli stood beside the motorcycle explaining something to his cousins.
“I learned.”
Emma followed his gaze.
“So did Daniel.”
They remained quiet.
Then Hank asked something he had avoided for three years.
“Do you forgive me?”
Emma turned.
“For what happened with Daniel?”
“Yes.”
She thought before answering.
“That isn’t mine to forgive.”
Hank nodded.
“I thought you’d say that.”
“I forgive you for the part that belonged to me.”
“What part?”
“For making me watch him miss somebody who was still alive.”
Hank’s face tightened.
Emma continued.
“I was angry about that.”
“You should’ve been.”
“I was angry after he died too.”
“I know.”
“But I don’t want to carry it anymore.”
Hank looked toward the boy outside.
“Neither do I.”
Emma smiled.
“Then don’t.”
At fourteen, Eli asked to repaint the motorcycle tank.
Hank almost dropped a wrench.
“What?”
They were in Hank’s garage during summer vacation.
Eli pointed toward the drawing.
“It’s fading.”
“I know.”
“Some lines are almost gone.”
“I know.”
“Dad’s face is getting blurry.”
Hank set the wrench down.
“That’s why we don’t touch it.”
Eli frowned.
“What if we redraw it?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because those are your original lines.”
“They’re bad.”
“They’re perfect.”
“They’re objectively terrible.”
“Still no.”
Eli studied him.
“You’re doing the thing.”
“What thing?”
“The thing Dad wrote about.”
Hank folded his arms.
“You’re fourteen. You don’t get to use dead people as debate strategy.”
“You’re keeping something because you’re scared changing it means losing it.”
Hank stared.
“That is an obnoxiously mature sentence.”
“Mom.”
“Of course.”
Eli touched the tank gently.
“I don’t want Dad disappearing.”
“Neither do I.”
“So let me draw him again.”
Hank looked at the faded white marks.
Four years.
Rain.
Sun.
Road dust.
Clear coat.
Time.
Everything altered objects eventually.
Trying to stop that completely was another kind of refusal.
“What would you change?”
Eli smiled.