gray suit, his face nearly the same color, hands folded in front of him.
He looked less like a grieving son than a man waiting for a sentence.
My cousin Derek had driven in from Charlottesville in a rental car, wearing a new suit with a fresh haircut. He shook hands like a real-estate agent hosting an open house, which was exactly what he was.
Nobody asked me to speak.
I had spent three years beside Grandpa, yet nobody thought to hand me a microphone.
Afterward, the reception took place