“I used to hear the truck start and turn right back over.

That was most of my marriage, right there.”

On the cardboard back, in pencil gone soft, somebody had written a line and closed it with a date.

“Read it to me,” she said.

“I cannot see that anymore without my other glasses.”

“For the boy who builds, from the woman who waits.”

She pressed a bulb down and covered it.

“I wrote that before your David was born.