I sat on the wooden porch swing wearing Greg’s old green flannel shirt over my dark sweater, holding the blue evening dress across my knees.

Biscuit rested his grey muzzle across my shoe, his heavy tail thumping once against the damp decking whenever a car passed on Oak Ridge Drive.

I stroked his soft neck while rainwater dripped off the overhang onto the yellow maple leaves stuck to the wet driveway.

Through the lighted kitchen window behind me, I could see the ceramic salt shaker sitting alone on the kitchen table where Greg had put down the manila envelope three weeks ago.

Greg had worn this green flannel shirt three summers ago when we scraped the old white paint off the garage trim together.