“Coffee’s fresh,” I said, setting the blue enamel pot back on the trivet on the stove.

He put two thick slices of white bread in the toaster and picked up his mug from the edge of the counter.

“What time do you have to be at the hospital?” he asked.

“Eight o’clock,” I said.

“Just eight hours today.”

He stood at the kitchen window and looked out across the yard toward the blacktop lane.

On the wall beside the kitchen door frame, the small wooden frame held the bluebird greeting card flat against the fresh white plaster.

The blue ink inside the card still said we were capable children who never gave anyone a day of worry.