one October afternoon before my grandmother’s eyesight or lungs failed.
So I planned the visit the way I plan a night shift.
Tight.
Timed.
Minimal exposure.
Drive north Friday after work.
Seven hours without a child.
Closer to nine with a three-year-old.
Motel on the far side of Dayton.
Two beds.
Free waffles.
Paid in advance.
Saturday entirely at June’s house.
Phones down.
Sunday morning, gone before First Grace began its first hymn.
By the time the fellowship hall coffee started, we would already be on the interstate.
Thirty-six hours.
