A memory hit me so suddenly I could almost hear Dad laughing.
Ethan chasing me through our old kitchen.
“Hum-Bee! Hum-Bee!”
I covered my mouth.
Ethan smiled.
“You remember.”
I nodded.
He carefully placed the bird on the table.
Then he reached into the case again.
The second piece was a wooden lantern.
Small.
Simple.
The tiny handle was made from bent wire.
“This is because Claire turns lights on.”
A few people laughed.
Ethan shook his head.
“Not regular lights.”
The room quieted.
He looked at the lantern.
“When Dad died, our house got dark.”
My lungs stopped working for a second.
Dad had died when I was fourteen.
Ethan was eleven.
He collapsed at work on a Tuesday morning.
A massive heart attack.
No warning.
No goodbye.
The last thing Dad had said to me was that my cereal bowl belonged in the dishwasher, not the sink.
For months afterward, Mom barely spoke.
