compare?”
Despite himself, Sam was pulled into the memory. “Lyle said he was a hot dog expert because he’d competed in hot-dog-eating contests, and since he’d never heard of them, how good could they be?”
Grid nodded. “And you challenged him to a duel. The guys cheered and egged the two of you on.”
“Lyle won and I threw up.”
“But they cheered as you puked,” Grid said with pride in his voice. Then his smile faded. “What would they think if they saw you now?”
Sam didn’t answer. He was still in the middle of that memory.
“I’ve been here two weeks, Sam. You’re talking now, and that’s good. But it’s not enough. You’ve got to get up. It’s time. You’ve mourned them. Now it’s time to honor them. Get up.”
Sam remembered Lyle and their hot dog debate.
Ramsey, a family man, had four girls. He used to joke that being deployed was his only defense against all that estrogen.
Smith was a musician when he wasn’t fighting in wars. Even now, Sam could hear the soft refrain of Red River Valley .
Johnson was an outdoorsman. He swore when he got home he was heading to Alaska. He longed for snow and ice. He was going to fish and lose himself in the wilderness there.
And Lennon, who was just one of the boys, even if she was a girl. She could spit, belch, and tell a tall tale along with the rest of them. But sometimes, there was a softness that crept around her rough edges. That little girl on their last trip. She’d held her as if she were the girl’s mother.
Sam felt the weight of their loss. It pressed on him, driving him back into himself.
Grid seemed to sense it. “No you don’t,” he said, and punched Sam in the arm, not as hard as he could, but hard enough to remind Sam he could still feel.
“Get up, Sam.” Grid’s voice was fierce. “You know they all would be pissed if they could see you here, wallowing. Just get up. That first step is always the hardest.”
Without a word, Sam reached down and fumbled with the brakes on the wheelchair.
He reached for the walker.
“Just one step, Sam. Once the first one’s over, the second will be easier, and then the third, then . . .”
Sam threw his weight forward and let momentum do the bulk of the work. He rose, unsteady.
“Just the first step,” Grid whispered.
And Sam reached his right leg forward, and set it inches in front of the left.
It wasn’t much of a step, but Grid was right; it was the hardest.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“Me, too,” Sam echoed.
That was all. Maybe it didn’t seem like much to Jerry, who was nursing his beer at the end of the bar, probably listening to us again.
But I knew it was something big.
Something huge.
That week, things felt different. Somehow lighter. Sam’s friend’s words resonated with me. Sometimes you needed to take time to collect yourself.
The first step is the hardest.
I’d taken a year and wasn’t sure I’d collected myself very much. I still felt . . . adrift. Lost.
Then I thought about it, and realized maybe I had taken a first step. I had friends now. Someplace to go every Monday. I felt as if I managed to reconnect with the kids.
I had the tapestry.
How had that very imperfect piece of cloth on my loom become so important? I wasn’t sure, but it was.
I took Angus on a long walk on Tuesday. I owed him after last week’s neglect. It was cool enough that I needed a jacket. I wore an old black-and-red flannel shirt that had been Conner’s, once upon a time. He’d left it when he went to college, and I claimed it.
Even though it had been years and it had thinned after repeated washings, I swore it kept me warmer than my fleece jacket. And it reminded me of my son. The boy he was, and the man he’d become.
He was a cop.
How an accountant and an art teacher had produced a law enforcement officer boggled me, but we had and he was.
He’d been a good kid, and now he was a good man, keeping people safe in Erie. He believed in what he was doing. I
Despite himself, Sam was pulled into the memory. “Lyle said he was a hot dog expert because he’d competed in hot-dog-eating contests, and since he’d never heard of them, how good could they be?”
Grid nodded. “And you challenged him to a duel. The guys cheered and egged the two of you on.”
“Lyle won and I threw up.”
“But they cheered as you puked,” Grid said with pride in his voice. Then his smile faded. “What would they think if they saw you now?”
Sam didn’t answer. He was still in the middle of that memory.
“I’ve been here two weeks, Sam. You’re talking now, and that’s good. But it’s not enough. You’ve got to get up. It’s time. You’ve mourned them. Now it’s time to honor them. Get up.”
Sam remembered Lyle and their hot dog debate.
Ramsey, a family man, had four girls. He used to joke that being deployed was his only defense against all that estrogen.
Smith was a musician when he wasn’t fighting in wars. Even now, Sam could hear the soft refrain of Red River Valley .
Johnson was an outdoorsman. He swore when he got home he was heading to Alaska. He longed for snow and ice. He was going to fish and lose himself in the wilderness there.
And Lennon, who was just one of the boys, even if she was a girl. She could spit, belch, and tell a tall tale along with the rest of them. But sometimes, there was a softness that crept around her rough edges. That little girl on their last trip. She’d held her as if she were the girl’s mother.
Sam felt the weight of their loss. It pressed on him, driving him back into himself.
Grid seemed to sense it. “No you don’t,” he said, and punched Sam in the arm, not as hard as he could, but hard enough to remind Sam he could still feel.
“Get up, Sam.” Grid’s voice was fierce. “You know they all would be pissed if they could see you here, wallowing. Just get up. That first step is always the hardest.”
Without a word, Sam reached down and fumbled with the brakes on the wheelchair.
He reached for the walker.
“Just one step, Sam. Once the first one’s over, the second will be easier, and then the third, then . . .”
Sam threw his weight forward and let momentum do the bulk of the work. He rose, unsteady.
“Just the first step,” Grid whispered.
And Sam reached his right leg forward, and set it inches in front of the left.
It wasn’t much of a step, but Grid was right; it was the hardest.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“Me, too,” Sam echoed.
That was all. Maybe it didn’t seem like much to Jerry, who was nursing his beer at the end of the bar, probably listening to us again.
But I knew it was something big.
Something huge.
That week, things felt different. Somehow lighter. Sam’s friend’s words resonated with me. Sometimes you needed to take time to collect yourself.
The first step is the hardest.
I’d taken a year and wasn’t sure I’d collected myself very much. I still felt . . . adrift. Lost.
Then I thought about it, and realized maybe I had taken a first step. I had friends now. Someplace to go every Monday. I felt as if I managed to reconnect with the kids.
I had the tapestry.
How had that very imperfect piece of cloth on my loom become so important? I wasn’t sure, but it was.
I took Angus on a long walk on Tuesday. I owed him after last week’s neglect. It was cool enough that I needed a jacket. I wore an old black-and-red flannel shirt that had been Conner’s, once upon a time. He’d left it when he went to college, and I claimed it.
Even though it had been years and it had thinned after repeated washings, I swore it kept me warmer than my fleece jacket. And it reminded me of my son. The boy he was, and the man he’d become.
He was a cop.
How an accountant and an art teacher had produced a law enforcement officer boggled me, but we had and he was.
He’d been a good kid, and now he was a good man, keeping people safe in Erie. He believed in what he was doing. I
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