HB

The whir of the coffee grinder fills the kitchen, relieving us both of the pressure to speak.  He doctors mine, leaves his black.  My thoughts match the color of his drink, surely just as bitter.

He’s not the only father who’s ever counted on things a father should be able to count on – recitals and pancakes and tussling.  He’s not the only husband who has worried about his child’s mother.  But he is the only guy in this house who celebrated another year of life without his daughter.

Andy worked all weekend.  He did get to watch football with his boys last night.  We visited him at the hospital yesterday, and Tucker gave him the painting he made: "black circles" with water colors.
There shouldn't be too much black right now though, so we plan to stretch the celebrating out through the week with more bright swashes of happy. 

 JEB