“I didn’t know if you were even still alive,” she said.

“I spent fifty-five years thinking I’d buried you behind this church,” I said.

“I know you did,” she said softly.

“The paper said you lived on Cedar Street.”

I reached into my black shoulder bag, past my ring of house keys and the gas station name tag I’d stuffed into the bottom corner.

My fingers touched the tissue paper wrapped around the five-and-dime shirt box.

I drew the box out into the light of the sanctuary.