SPRING, 1964
On Friday nights we let Hugo stay up a little bit later than during the week. He’d sit between Clara and Albert on the couch, eating popcorn and watching Route 66.
I let them have those evenings to the three of them. I’d shut myself up in my bedroom to read or write. Sometimes I’d go to bed. Getting up before dawn to work at Sweet Family certainly did wear me out. Since Lazy Morning closed up shop at the beginning of March, we’d been busier than ever at the bakery.
That night, though, I decided that I wanted to be outside. The winter had been a mild one, but long—as Michigan winters often were. It was nice to be in the dying light of an early spring day.
I kicked off my shoes and let my toes wiggle in the grass.
The lawn needed a good mowing, something I was more than happy to pay Nick or Dick to do. When I sat down in the middle of the yard, though, I was glad for how soft it was under my behind.
I shut my eyes, thinking of the last time I’d allowed myself the luxury of sitting in the grass. I remembered the last kiss Norm had given me and the way his voice had sounded when he told me he loved me for the very last time.
While I was at it, I let my mind meander over other moments we’d shared. Those memories, the story we lived together, made me miss him. But it was the missing that made him feel closer to my heart somehow.
How I’d loved Norman Sweet.
How I loved him still.
The back door opened and closed, I heard it squeak on its hinges. I didn’t jump to my feet or open my eyes even. I kept them shut until I smelled the apple and wood aroma of chamomile tea.
Clara handed me the steaming cup before sitting beside me.
“Is Hugo down?” I asked, turning to see that the light was on in his room.
“He’s getting into his pajamas,” Clara answered, blowing into her cup. “He wanted a story.”
“I can tell him one.” I wrapped both hands around my mug. “Did Albert leave?”
“Just a few minutes ago. He needs to be at the bakery bright and early.” A smile on her face, she nodded toward the back corner of the yard. “Did you forget to bring in the laundry?”
Sure enough, I’d forgotten the sheets and towels I’d hung out to dry earlier in the day. Some things simply did not change.
“I’ll bring them in,” she said, getting to her feet. “You go tell Hugo his story.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah.” She offered me her hand, helping up. “But I’m not folding the fitted sheets.”
She put her cup on the porch and made her way across the grass where I already had a basket waiting.
I didn’t hurry inside. Instead, I watched her, my brave and noble sister. Clara the conqueror.
Somewhere—not too far away—I heard a bird calling out. A robin, I knew, from the trilling, singsong of its voice. Clara had heard it too and turned back. I could see her smile even in the fading light.
I went inside, not wanting to keep Hugo waiting. But as I climbed the stairs I imagined the bird perched in a nearby tree, not willing to be scared off by anything.
As the night got darker, the bird would stay right where she was, singing even as the sun went down.