On a Thursday Margaret opened the garage to look for a rake and saw the space where the box had been. Patrick had taken the rest of the pictures to Judith and then, at Margaret’s request, stored them at his apartment. Margaret did not want Dayton in her garage. She wanted the rake. She found the rake. She raked the yard and her shoulders hurt and the hurt was honest.
Winter came. The peonies slept. Spring came. The peonies came back. Margaret stood over them and said, out loud, “You don’t know anything.” The peonies did not. That was their virtue.
She lived.
Frank lived.
Patrick lived.
Christine lived.
Matthew and Josh lived.
The second life did not vanish because a lid came off. It became a set of phone numbers and a court stamp and a dining room without song.
Do not sing.
Blow those candles out yourself.
I am done celebrating a man I never fully met.
Margaret had said it while the relatives still had cake on their forks.
She did not take it back.
She never will.
The party had started well, which is the part that stays stuck under Margaret’s ribs.
Frank’s cousin told a story about a fishing trip. Someone spilled a little wine and laughed. Patrick arrived late and kissed his mother’s cheek and did not take off his jacket for a while. Margaret thought he was cold. He was not cold. He was waiting for the box.
She had put Frank in the chair at the head because it was his seventy. She had put the box where his hands would find it after the small gifts—socks, a book, a bottle. The small gifts were honest. The box was honest in a different key.