Chapter 12 - The Rod and the Whistle
A few days later we met Marcus, Ben, and his grandfather down by the lake. I brought one of my sons' fishing rods. Ben stared when I offered it to him.
"He would have hated seeing a good rod sit in a closet," I said.
Ben took it carefully. Marcus stood beside me, looking out at the water. "I've spent six years thinking an empty place on that boat belonged to me."
I looked at the orange whistle in the grandfather's hand. "Maybe not everything Grant packed ended up where he expected it to."
Marcus's eyes filled. Naomi quietly raised her phone.
"Mom."
I turned. For one terrible second, all I saw was that driveway six years earlier — Grant, three boys, the last photograph.
"Closer," Naomi said, looking through the screen.
Marcus stepped in beside me. Ben held the rod. His grandfather rested a hand on the boy's shoulder.
Nobody replaced anybody. Nobody could. But we were all still connected by what had happened out on that water.
Naomi smiled. Click.
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And this time, I didn't wonder who might disappear after the picture was taken.
I simply let myself be in it.
