Henry Smith was kneeling quietly on the wool carpet, palms together, lowering his head in a slow, solemn bow. Three times, with genuine reverence. Then, from the incense box I’d prepared for my dad’s reburial, he pulled out a stick, lit it, and stuck it into the ashtray he used as a makeshift holder.
Thin smoke curled up, soft and haunting. He stared at my dad's urn without saying a word, like he'd gone still inside.
Outside, the rain kept falling. The lights from the building across the street shimmered in the drizzle, bathing him in a kind of gentleness I didn’t expect.
I didn’t think someone just kneeling there could look so beautiful.
Then he turned and his voice broke the silence. “I’m leaving.”
Snapped me right out of it. “Wait till the rain’s done,” I blurted.
Di
