The grandfather sets the washing machine to fill with cold water. That was one of the things his wife had whispered from the hospice bed: “You can do almost everything in cold water.” He’d stained a beige shirt pink before realizing: there were other warnings she’d forgotten.
This load is all browns and reds. It’s November. Can’t go wrong with buffalo-checks. He bought a shirt for his grandson’s birthday—the boy’s thirteenth? The boy knew to be polite.
The grandfather’s wife would’ve known what to buy. While she did the laundry she would’ve been planning Thanksgiving. The kids would’ve been planning to visit. The grandfather could’ve been planning to take his grandson hunting.
He can see the boy stretching to match his stride across the stubble fields. A desultory snow is falling, big flakes that melt on the tips of kids’ tongues. It’s bright; the snow won’t last. And where did the boy go? The grandfather hears a dry husk snap behind him. All the dogs he’s ever had are bounding over the stubble, tongues flapping so they seem to smile: Dixie and Patrick, Timmy and Bongo, Nell and Katie, her bad leg healed at last. They’re all running to greet him.
