But when my neighbor, Mr. Whitmore, died, with him went every scrap of certainty I ever had about what it means to know someone, or yourself.
***
The morning after his funeral, I found a sealed envelope in my mailbox. It was fat and heavy, with my name spelled out in looping blue ink.
I stood on my porch with the sunrise at my back and my hands shaking, telling myself that it was probably just a thank-you note from his family for helping organize the memorial service.
It was the kind of thing polite people do in towns like ours, where nothing is ever as quiet as it seems.
I found a sealed envelope in my mailbox.
But the letter inside wasn’t a thank-you.
My husband, Richie, stepped onto the porch behind me, blinking in the sunlight.
“What’s up?” he asked.
“It’s from Mr. Whitmore.”
