Mel stood out on the porch and let her past creep up on her. And the coffee got cold in her hands; that was a first.
“It’s Valerie,” Tim appears behind her.
She doesn’t respond. He fades away behind the sliding glass door, taking with him “she’s not feeling…”
The sun got up and soon cast shorter shadows around her. They call that ‘being noon’.
She woke up in an ambulance two hours later, just for a few seconds. Her white nightgown now blood-red and getting cold. She looked around for someone. And there he was sitting, her little boy, at the corner of the ambulance, smiling. She smiled back.
Tim sold the house six months later. The same one he and Mel planned to grow old together in. Her ashes were scattered where her parents’ had been, on her birthday. Tim had to wait. He cried for one more year, then gave up.
He hoped Mel has been waiting. And would forgive him about Brandon.
Their son would’ve been 19. The day Mel’s coffee got cold in her hands.