He dreamt of her last night. Her death, and then attending her funeral. Waking in tears.
He didn’t cry when it happened. Not when his father could see.
The sadness had belonged to the old man then, more than himself. It had been his turn to be strong. To soldier on. For his father. For the other mourners. Maybe a little bit for himself, just to see if he could.
For years after, he had forgotten to grieve. Never really learned how. Never took the time.
This morning he wept, the memory of her face lost except, in that dream.