He did not attend his wife’s funeral. She was buried with plenty of loving friends and family, praying and singing for her soul, but not him.

When the old man was told about her death, he simply said, ohhhh. He told me he couldn’t remember who she was. Wasn’t sure who I was for that matter.

I asked him if he remembered trips to Dallas when we were all younger; him and mom in the front seat, eating roast beef sandwiches while I sat in back watching America go by. We passed rivers, lakes, small towns, and diesel drivers honked at us when I gave them the signal, forearm, and fist pulling straight down. That always made us laugh.

But no, he did not attend mom’s funeral. We went fishing instead on the banks of the Ouachita River. He always loved going there, never caught anything, just sat in the sun for hours humming Glenn Campbell songs. Wichita Lineman and By The Time I Get To Phoenix, were his favorites.

He sat there pondering. Did someone die? he asked.

Yes, dad. Someone died. 

Someone I knew?

Yes. Your wife.

Huh. How strange. Did we love each other?

Yeah.

That’s good. You never know.