there because he understood that sometimes grief needed companionship, not words. Every Monday, he would ask about my grandson.
“How’s Danny, Martha? Is he still drawing those spaceships?”
“It is, sir. Now it’s adding aliens.”
“Fine. Tell him I want to see one.”
A week before Mr. Whitaker died, Danny had drawn him a rocket surrounded by green aliens. Mr. Whitaker had taped it to the refrigerator himself. I remembered that moment when the front door slammed and Julian came into the foyer. I had met Mr. Whitaker’s son only
