I looked back at the article.
“He never told me.”
“He almost never told anyone.”
The attorney folded the clipping again.
“He believed people listened better when they didn’t feel like they were being treated.”
“He never told me.”
I smiled through my tears.
That sounded exactly like Thomas.
Then the attorney reached into his desk drawer.
“I almost forgot.”
He placed one last envelope on the table.
Across the front, in Thomas’s handwriting, were two words.
“After Tuesday…”
I smiled through my tears.
“He asked me not to give you this until after his funeral.”
I didn’t open it there.
***
That evening I carried the envelope to the little park across from my apartment.
I opened it slowly.
Inside wasn’t a letter.
Just a folded sheet of notebook paper.
I didn’t open it there.
A list.
Botanical Garden
Farmers’ Market
Ice cream from Oakridge Street
