Sunday morning, René and I headed out on the road, with lots of treats, hot chocolate—coffee for him—bread, cream cheese, and music to keep us company. The drive was a pleasurable one, with René regaling me with stories of the things he and his college buddies had gotten up to when they were young and dumb. I told him about life with Woody and Rafe. It was nice, the sharing.
Hours later, we arrived in a small town that seemed faded but quaint. He drove slowly through the streets until he parked in front of small older house, with flowers all around it.
“This is where I grew up. My grandmother still lives here. She raised me from the age of five. She refuses to move, no matter how much I harangue her about it. I send her money, take care of her bills, visit when I can and have the neighbo
