He was a short, stocky middle-aged man with generic features and coloring. His once reddish hair had turned gray throughout. He could have been anyone but he was someone they called Crazy Dog.
The night was more interesting than the man. The air was heavy with all that an impending storm lends to the senses. No moon.

Me and Johnny’s going to The Hickory Hut for smoky charred pork slathered with sweet vinegar sauce, Brunswick stew, creamy cole slaw, and buttered Texas toast. We’ve got the evening to kill before we clock in on the graveyard shift at Weinraub Manufacturing, and we’re happy over not having to go to Viet Nam.

I was reading a new biography about Walt Disney when they sat down behind me by the window. He mentioned their Starbucks “date,” which was not really a date, he said, just a casual second meeting. After half an hour I wanted to say to her, don’t be so subdued. Speak out. Twice she had said “that’s awesome.” No more awesome. Be a little hard to get.

That night when I first heard the glass in the window rattle I honestly thought the girl from next door had driven her Corolla into the side of the house. Sharp and sudden I heard it—over the steady hum of the air conditioner propped into that untidy little window and the noisemaker so busy filling the air with soothing jungle noises,

“You know, I won’t be here much longer,” Morris had threatened all of our lives—even when his hair was still black.

While we were growing up, we were forbidden to say that word—death. We, his three daughters, never mentioned our grandparents’ graves.