BELLE DIED in the spring. I went cold through the summer. Waiting.
Her father was in a prison in Florida, finishing up a manslaughter bit. I did some checking- learned they'd cut him loose in late October.
Michelle wrote the letter, copying Belle's handwriting from a poem the big girl once tried to write.
If her father had any family left to spend Thanksgiving with, there'd be an empty chair at the table.
But the cold was still in me.