The doctor wrote cardiac arrest on the paperwork, yet I knew exactly what had happened because I watched it happen day after day. People imagine that dying from heartbreak looks dramatic and sudden, but the truth is quieter and more cruel. First they stop eating regularly. Then they stop laughing. Soon they stop caring whether the morning sun comes through the window. Eventually one morning arrives when they simply never wake up again.
After Dorothy died my world narrowed to three things. Grant Family Market, my granddaughter Ava, and the yearly ritual of sending money to the man who was raising her.
Grant Family Market sits on the corner of Baker Street and Hudson Avenue in the town of Redbrook, Ohio. My father started the grocery store when I was a teenager, and I took over the business when he retired. The place always smells like bananas, sliced turkey from the deli counter, and the lemon cleaner we use on the tile floors. Customers still pay with folded bills pulled from worn wallets, and many of them stay at the counter talking about their lives long after their groceries are bagged.
Running the store kept my hands busy whenever my mind wanted to replay funeral hymns.