man who used to label my lunches.
Eight builders from his crew carried him at the funeral in borrowed ties, crying openly.
My family didn’t come.
Seven hours, they said, was too far.
They sent carnations with a card signed to the Ives family in my aunt Sharon’s handwriting.
Meaning my mother had delegated the flowers.
Four days after the funeral, she texted:
“So sorry about everything, honey. Will this month’s transfer be late with all this going on?”
I was standing inside Caleb’s closet holding one of his flannel
