him and grin.
“This one makes you sit closer to me, Mon.”
“That’s because the springs are trying to swallow us.”
He always laughed and tugged me down beside him. Arthur could repair nearly anything, and believed practically everything was worth repairing.
After his death, that uncomfortable sofa became the only place where sleep came easily. I curled beneath his blanket on his usual side, letting the television play until dawn.
Our twenty-nine-year-old daughter, Aurora, eventually confronted me. She had inherited Arthur’s dry wit alongside my determination.
“Mom, you can’t
