My Family Toasted

The first truck.

Old route maps.

Photos of warehouse crews.

Dispatch boards.

A list of employees who had been with the company more than fifteen years.

I hung Grandpa’s photo in the center.

Elena stood beside me.

“Looks right,” she said.

“It does.”

“You ever miss them?”

I knew who she meant.

My family.

I considered lying.

Then didn’t.

“Sometimes I miss who I needed continue reading …