The American flag magnet on my fridge was crooked the morning everything started to come apart. I noticed it while I stood at the sink with my coffee going lukewarm in a mug from a Route 66 gift shop we’d stopped at once on a long-ago road trip. Sinatra was mumbling low from the little radio on the counter, and the ice in yesterday’s glass of sweet tea clinked when I moved it out of the way.
My eyes slipped past the magnet, past the clutter on the counter, out the window over the sink.
The garage door was open. Dennis never left that door open.
Forty-three years of marriage, and not once had I woken up to see that white door rolled up like a missing tooth at the back of our little house on Oakwood Drive. But Dennis had been gone for eight months.
I set the coffee down and squinted through the glass, expecting—hoping—to see the familiar burgundy curve of his 1967 Shelby GT500 sitting there, right where it had sat for two decades.
For a second, my brain tried to put it there, to fill in the space the way you fill in a missing piece of a flag when the wind snaps it around the pole. The space was empty. I opened the back door, and warm April air slid into the kitchen.
The screen squeaked the way it always had as I stepped onto the little concrete stoop.
The yard smelled like fresh earth and the neighbor’s laundry detergent. Somewhere down the block, a lawn mower roared to life.
I crossed the yard in my slippers, the concrete still holding the cool from the night. Inside the garage, the light from the driveway cut a bright rectangle across Dennis’s workbench, his pegboard, his red toolbox.
The car was gone.
The oil stain was still there, a dark, irregular shape in the middle of the floor where the Shelby’s belly had rested for twenty years. Above it, there was nothing but dust motes floating in a shaft of sun. For a moment, my chest locked up.
I put my hand on the doorframe and did what I’d coached a thousand patients to do in the ICU.
In through the nose. Out through the mouth.
Breathe, think, act. Only I couldn’t think past the empty space.
I walked in on autopilot, fingers grazing the familiar edges of the workbench.
Dennis’s tools hung exactly where he’d left them, each one outlined in black marker on the pegboard. His red toolbox sat closed, wiped clean, corners dinged from years of use. His work journal lay open on the bench.
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
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