suppose any age would have felt too young to me.
If he had been seventy-five, I would have wanted eighty.
If he had been eighty, I would have wanted ninety.
There would never have been an age when losing him would have felt reasonable.
He was still completely Roy when he died.
Still making Saturday plans.
Still noticing things that needed fixing.
Still wearing that slow-arriving smile.
He had a heart attack while working in the garden.
Saturday morning.
Exactly where he had spent so many Saturday mornings before.
The
