100 Words on Love, by James Stafford
I sat outside on the steps, staring at the clouds. He sat down beside me and lit a cigarette.
“Sitting in the rain, Jimmer?”
“Yeah. It’s too noisy in there. Everybody talking and acting happy.”
He flicked his ashes. “Yeah, they love to talk.”
“I don’t want to pretend I’m happy, and I don’t want to talk. I just want to get the service over with and go home.”
He stared at the rain. “It’s a hell of a goddamned thing,” he said. “Come back in when you’re ready.”
“Okay, Grandpa,” I said.
Nine months later he was gone, too.
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