One

My son was dead. I knew it the minute I saw the black-and-white

car pull to the curb in front of my house.

Clods of potting soil still clinging to my gloves—like the debris of the last few years clung to everything in my life—I turned back to my house, walked up the porch steps, opened the front door, then closed and locked it behind me. Perhaps a reasonable person would understand that the clink of the

deadbolt sliding into place did nothing to stop the impending

news. Well, show me the mother who thinks with reason when

faced with the news that her only remaining son is dead.

I walked into my kitchen and tossed my gloves on the

counter, ignoring the splatter of soil they left over what had

been spotless granite. I grabbed a cup from the top shelf and

shoved it against the slot in the refrigerator door, holding it in

place with such force I thought the glass might shatter. Cold

water filled it almost to the rim. Just taking a little break from

gardening, that’s what I was doing. That policeman outside

had turned onto the wrong street, that’s all. He had probably

realized his mistake and was gone by now.

Kathryn Cushman

I took a seat at the kitchen table and opened the home

improvement catalog that sat atop the mail pile. I thumbed

mindlessly through page after page until one particular ad

reached out and wrapped its fingers around my throat. The boys in the photo looked nothing like Nicolas or Kurt, other than the fact that my sons had once been boys that size. Still, looking at the picture, I couldn’t help but remember them as their eight- and ten-year-old selves. A smiling father held up

the latest power drill beside the tree house in progress; his

smiling wife stood atop the latest greatest ladder. Even the

chocolate Labrador at the bottom of the picture appeared to

be smiling at the two boys, who stood beside the pile of lumber.

A world so full of promise.

Just like ours had once been.

The chime of the doorbell brought me back to the present.

And reality. A reality I didn’t want to face, but I had to. Time

had just run out.

As I walked toward the front door, it occurred to me that

these would be the last steps I would ever take without know-

ing for certain that Kurt was dead. I needed to hold on to

this time for as long as I could, remember each step as some- thing precious. One step. Two. Three . . . At ten, I reached the door.

I took a deep breath and put my hand on the brass handle,

still smeared with dirt from my useless attempt to shut this

moment out. In spite of the fact that I didn’t want it to, the lock

pivoted beneath my fingers. There was no turning back now. I tugged at the front door, surprised by how heavy it felt, and then came face-to-face with my worst nightmare. Only what I saw did not match the image I had expected.