“It won’t bring him back,” my sister says, in her customer service voice. “Just accept it, Marsha, and move on.”
I sit on my hands that want to smack her face.
The minute she leaves, I start again with his dresser drawers. White undershirts and briefs give no information, nor do rolled-up socks. There’s a red sweater with the price tag still on.
Would somebody hopeless buy a red sweater?