“Heather died.”
Those were the first words out of his mouth. I’d picked up Don’s call on the fourth ring with a cheerful, “Hey Don, what’s up?”
His voice collapsed on her name. I remembered how it felt when my old man passed—how I’d scrolled through a Rolodex of forty names, hoping maybe some of them would care that the big gun wasn’t firing anymore.
Don sounded like I had twenty years ago: caught between tears and the need to speak for the dead, sitting somewhere at a vinyl chair, a seventies breakfast table still covered in plastic because someone once thought what was underneath was worth preserving.
“Shit,” I said, then corrected myself. “Shoot.”
He laughed softly and met me in the profanity. “Yeah, it’s pretty fucked up.” Pretty and fucked up—maybe the only time they’ve ever belonged together.
We sat in silence. Short breaths on the other end reminded me he was still there—all 6’4″, 300 pounds of Iowa farm boy, with a heart as gold as the corn.
She’d been the first call I made when my wife of thirty years decided it was no longer a go. Heather broke into prayer right there on the line, then yelled at Don as he passed through the kitchen: “Wil got some bad news—we need to pray.” And they did.
Now Heather’s in a better place. But that doesn’t help us here none.
I offered the “whatever you need” and meant it. He said he ‘preciated it, then sucked up the last bit of courage and said, Thank you. She always liked you. Thought you should know.
I hung up and sat there. Grief is a thing made of lead. I didn’t want to move. Maybe couldn’t.
She was an angel, that’s for sure. She always said I was smart. I remember her telling me she was proud of me—and for whatever reason, that landed harder than any I love you ever could.
It made me think of my old man again, and the way he never said he loved me, but he’d say he was proud. I think that was just his way of saying love.
And even though it would’ve been nice to hear the words, I never once felt unloved by Heather, or by the big gun. And for now, that is enough.


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