I did the digging until my back said something about it, and then Emily did the digging, carefully, in the way she has to do everything now, and I held the post plumb while she poured.

Neither of us said his name. We haven’t needed to for a while.

She painted it the following weekend. White, same as before. She has never been a good painter and there are drips on the north side and I have decided I like them.

I still live in the same house. The dishwasher still hums too loudly.

The coffee still goes cold by the sink because I make it and then I get busy with something and forget, which my wife found funny for twenty-nine years and which my daughter now finds funny.

The small flag still moves on the porch when the damp night air comes through. And sometimes the phone rings late.