I wasn’t.

I was finally refusing to write everybody else’s part for them.

They had to pick up their own pen.

Some did.

Slowly.

Imperfectly.

Really.

I am still here.

Not waiting beside the phone.

Not standing at a table for nine.

Just here.

At a little house near Lake Erie.

Sometimes alone.

Often not.

Walt’s glasses on the nightstand.

The empty Italy can on the shelf.

A blue spiral notebook in the kitchen.

One candle on Sunday.

One plate if that is all I need.

Ten when people actually come.

And every Sunday evening, right around seven, my phone rings.

“Hi, Grandma.”

“Hi, Piper.”

No closet.

No flashlight.

No locked drawer.

Just my granddaughter calling because she wants to.

For me, that is enough.

More than enough.
“`

Disclaimer: This story is fictional and created for entertainment purposes only. Any names, characters, places, or events are fictitious or used fictitiously. No real person or organization is intended to be portrayed.

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