A Promise at the Grave
He asked questions constantly, about everything, the way curious children do, wanting to understand how the whole world was put together.
And most of his questions I could answer, or could at least look up with him, the two of us bent over a library book or a screen, figuring it out together.
Why is the sky blue, how do airplanes stay up, where do bugs go in the winter.
I loved those questions.
I loved being the one he brought them to, the keeper of answers, the person who made the world make sense for him.
But there was one question, the one that mattered more than all the others, the one that sat underneath his whole childhood like a stone under a mattress, that I could never answer.
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