The final weeks of fall race by like they usually do in upstate New York, a definitive sign that a long, cold winter is approaching.
That afternoon, in early October, Harry sits on the bench outside the nursing home, staring up at a smoky-grey sky. The heavy dark clouds promise snow. Zeke is buried in Rockwood Cemetery, two miles from the nursing home.
Zeke’s aide, Samantha, had called Harry that morning after the funeral and asked him to stop by Saint Keller’s. Harry stares down at a letter she handed him upon his arrival. “He wanted you to have this,” she said. She told Harry that Zeke wrote it when Zeke was admitted to the home, five years ago.
One of his good days, Harry recalls, and a momentary grin lifts the corners of his downturned mouth.
Trembling, Harry rips open the envelope
