Six months after the hearing, I visited Dad’s grave with a copy of the final accounting.
Wind moved through the oak trees, and the grass still held the silver shine of morning rain.
I sat beside his headstone and placed my hand over his name.
“They laughed when I walked in,” I told him.
“But they stopped.”
For a moment, I could almost hear his voice on the porch again.
Paper remembers what people try to forget.
I smiled through my tears.
“So did I, Dad,” I whispered.
“So did I.”
