Mrs. Dollarton’s body was in the living room. She was my friend, or rather, she was my friend Bobby’s mother.

It was the 50s. I used to knock on their door and ask if Bobby was going to come out. On days when he was running an errand, like walking to the grocery store or something, Mrs. Dollarton would stop whatever she was doing and sit with me on the top step of the porch. She talked to me like I was a grown-up. I guess that’s what I liked best of all about her. But she was awfully pretty, too.

Then suddenly she was dead. Her body was laid out in Bobby’s living room. That’s what they did back in the 50s, can you believe it? And I went to see her one last time.

There were so many people milling around. No one noticed me come in and walk up to her casket. I kind-of remember her reddish hair, but time may have skewed my memory. Anyway, I wanted to touch her, but I wasn’t sure if you were allowed, so I just stood and looked at her and wished her alive. I don’t know how long I stared at her, mesmerized how alive she looked, but I knew she would never sit up and smile at me ever again.

I walked back to my house and climbed the stairs to my bedroom. I picked up the pillow on my bed and used it to muffle my hysterical cries.

I don’t remember if I said, “Sorry” to my friend, Bobby.