“Are you okay?”
The question struck deeper than the photograph.
“I’m here.”
“That is not an answer.”
I looked again at the wreck.
“I hate it.”
“Because it hurt me?”
“Because it almost made a world without you.”
He squeezed my hand.
“It didn’t.”
“No.”
“I’m here.”
“Yes.”
He leaned over and kissed me softly.
Then began reading.
He moved slowly through the columns.
His finger followed the lines when the print became dense. Once, he paused and looked toward me after reading the sentence about falling in love again.
“That’s accurate.”
“It is.”
“Did it sound foolish?”
“No.”
“Too sentimental?”
“No.”
“Owen will be unbearable.”
“Already.”
A smile touched his mouth.
He continued.
When he reached the final paragraphs, the smile disappeared.
He read them again.
“What?”
