Gina
“Well, I’ll be damned,” Daddy says. “I mean, I just can’t wrap my head around it.”
I look down at the pork chops frying in the pan. The sound of the grease popping and sizzling is the only noise in the room. “What"s wrong?” I ask.
My father is at the kitchen table peeling potatoes. His hands are shaking, and the potato peeler is making a soft screeching sound as it moves back and forth across the potato. I try not to pay too much attention. He was supposed to be done an hour ago, and I know we won"t be having potatoes with this meal. But I let it be, because it makes him feel helpful. “Martha Walton dying,” he says. “Some people, you just think they’re gonna live forever.”
“I know,” I tell him, scanning the calendar. I’m still thinking about Sharon. She’d be devastated to learn th
