Weeks, dates, a hospital. Not one of them has anything in it about the day.
I have carried that list in my head for a decade and it is a chart.
And in twenty minutes behind a curtain in 2019, my husband got something that is not on it, and he has had it ever since, and I have been describing him for six years as the one who found it hardest to talk about.
And the last thing.
In the September, the second time, I noticed something about that envelope that I had never noticed in six years, because I had never held it for longer than about four seconds.
It has been opened.
Obviously it has — Saul has had it out a dozen times and I know that.
That is not what I mean.
It has been resealed.
Not with the original flap, which went years ago. Somebody has put a strip of tape across it. And then another one, further along, where the first one had stopped holding.
