When Bert died years later at the age of 78, I drove to Michigan with my brother and Uncle Rob. We got to the funeral home in time for the last viewing. When I saw him in the casket, I stood alongside as long as I could hold it in, then went downstairs to the men’s room and sobbed like never before. I didn’t cry when my father died, but this was different.
When we got back to Dean Road, we sat in the living room to catch up on family news. Charlotte was there with her husband, a man named Royal. They still lived in Temperance; they had grown-up children and a grandbaby. She said the developers had been nagging Bert for years to sell out so they could expand their development, now right up against the wheat field.
The living room looked much the same as when I had last seen it 25 years earlier. Bert’s chair was still in the corner; it was empty, and I sat in it for a while. Trying not to be too obvious, I looked around the room for the chicken disease book, but it was gone.