Three months before my release.
My father had written it knowing I would be free soon.
He’d written it knowing he wouldn’t be alive to explain.
My vision blurred.
Harold cleared his throat. “Read it somewhere quiet,” he said. “He didn’t want… an audience.”
I couldn’t speak. I just nodded, because if I opened my mouth, I might fall apart right there beside the pine trees.
I walked to a bench near the far side of the cemetery, where the gravel path curled behind a line of old stones. I
