“Can you be a brave boy for me?”
When you’re an eight year old boy there’s really only one answer to that.
We were standing in Grandma’s kitchen. It was usually a busy place, especially when there was family visiting. And there was a bunch of family – my aunt and uncle had brought Grandma’s cousin Elanor from Germany out to visit, so they were there, along with their kids. There were other relatives there too. I don’t really recall who, exactly. But it was a pretty full house that night. The place should have been full of noise and laughter, and the kitchen should have been full of people. Earlier that night it had been. But now Mom and I had the room to ourselves. Strange.
