Daniel’s wife, Patricia, had been buried just 11 days before. My brother had made it less than two weeks.
I was 27, single, and living above the hardware store where I swept floors and cut keys. There was exactly $312 in my checking account, and my futon didn’t even unfold completely.
One of the triplets made a noise, a quiet, wet hiccup, almost as though she were trying to be courteous. My brother had lasted less than two weeks.
I lowered myself onto my knees on the porch. Two tiny faces were sleeping, except for the smallest girl, who stared directly at me with the same gray eyes as my mother.
“Hey,” I whispered. “Hey, you.”
At that exact moment, Mrs. Hunter stepped outside the neighboring unit wearing her bathrobe, her slippers smacking against the concrete. She’d lived beside me for six years and had never once been good at minding her own business, which that night ended up being a blessing.
