There Was an Extra Place at the Table for My Late Husband—That’s When My Son Went Pale

first Christmas, the first anniversary, the first spring planting season when I had to hire someone else to work the north pasture because I couldn’t bear to walk where he’d fallen. I’d done the impossible work of continuing to breathe when the person who’d shared my oxygen for forty-one years was gone.

And now my son wanted me to sit at a table and continue reading …