that eventually collects its due.
One morning, I pulled into my driveway and noticed that Ezra’s porch light was still burning bright in the midday sun. A cold knot formed in my stomach. By lunchtime, my fears were confirmed by the local authorities. Ezra had passed away peacefully in his sleep at the age of eighty-four, leaving behind a quiet house and a void in my heart.
The funeral was a somber, intimate affair, much smaller than I had imagined for a man who had lived so long. There were
