“He loved soccer.”
I looked up to see the woman I recognized from the funeral as David’s mother. She wore a simple black dress and held an embroidered handkerchief.
“Most people in the high school don’t know that. He quit when it got too difficult for him…”
Between the photos, the altar of posthumous gifts, and the realization that there was so much more than I would ever know about him, I wanted more than anything in my life to go back in time and take back what we had done. My knees gave out and I almost fell.
“Are you okay, son?” She caught me and helped me to one of the wrought-iron garden chairs near a fountain. “You need to eat something; we need to keep up our strength.” She tried in vain to catch someone’s eye inside, but settled for getting me to sit down successfully. She wor
