Every morning, I looked at the patch over my heart.
And every morning, I drove to the grandmother's house at the agreed time.
Some days, we ate breakfast.
Other days, I helped repair things around the property.
The porch railing.
A loose gate.
A cabinet hinge that wouldn't close properly.
I was careful not to turn every visit into a performance.
The grandmother didn't need another man arriving to prove he could fix everything.
She needed someone dependable.
And my granddaughter needed a chance to decide whether she liked having me around.
On the third day, she asked if we could visit a small park near the edge of town.
The grandmother came with us.
We walked along a paved path beneath cottonwood trees while the little girl collected smooth stones.
She wore her pink raincoat even though the afternoon was sunny.
I asked why.
She looked toward me.
"Mom bought it."
I nodded.
"That's a good reason."
She smiled.
Then held up a stone.
"Look. It's shaped like a heart."
I examined it.
"Sure is."
She placed it in her pocket.
Then asked, "Do you miss Mom a lot?"
I stopped walking.
The grandmother slowed behind us.
I looked toward the girl.
"Yes."
She nodded.
"Me too."
For a moment, we stood beside the path.
Then she asked, "Do you think she's mad at you?"
My throat tightened.
I considered my answer carefully.
"I think she was hurt by things I did."
The child studied me.
I continued.
"And I wish I'd apologized while she was here."
She looked down.
Then asked, "Can you say sorry to someone who's gone?"
I swallowed.
"I think you can."
She considered.
"Can they hear?"
I looked toward the trees.
I didn't know.
And I wasn't going to pretend otherwise.
So I answered honestly.
"I don't know, sweetheart."
The girl nodded.
Then looked toward me.
"But you can still say it."
I smiled sadly.
"Yes."
She reached into her pocket.
Removed the heart-shaped stone.
Then placed it in my palm.
"You can use this."
I stared.
"For what?"
She shrugged.
"To remember."
I closed my fingers around it.
"Thank you."
She smiled.
Then ran toward the grandmother.
I remained beside the path for several seconds.
The stone felt small and warm in my hand.
I'd spent decades collecting motorcycle patches from places I'd visited.
Mountains.
Deserts.
Highways.
Charity rides.
Each one represented a story.