When my nephew came to stay with us for the summer, I thought the hardest part would be helping him settle into a quiet house after a year of chaos.
I thought grief would be the thing we had to learn to live around.
I thought silence would be the biggest problem.
I was wrong.The first thing I noticed was the gloves.
Black leather.
Smooth, fitted, expensive-looking in a way that didn’t make sense on a fifteen-year-old boy with one overstuffed duffel bag and a backpack that looked like it had been packed in a hurry.
He wore them when he stepped onto our porch that first Saturday in June, and he wore them when I hugged him, when Lila handed him a glass of water, and when he sat at our kitchen table and ate tacos with a fork and knife as if touching a tortilla with his bare fingers would cost him something.Nate had always been a quiet kid, but this was different.
Quiet wasn’t the right word anymore.
He had become careful.
Measured.He answered every question with the same precise politeness, as if he had practiced being easy to keep.
‘Yes, sir.’ ‘No, ma’am.’ ‘Whatever’s easiest.’ He thanked people too quickly and moved through rooms like he was apologizing for existing in them.
My sister Hannah used to joke that Nate had artist hands.
Even when he was little, he was always drawing things in the margins of church bulletins and grocery lists.At the front entrance, he stopped short.
Not enough to make a scene.
Just enough for me to notice
