Uncle Dan had been my father’s football coach and at eighty he still looked solid and vigorous. When he hugged me the tears in his eyes were magnified hugely by his coke-bottle glasses. My aunt, on the other hand, was very thin and looked so pale and dry that if you lifted her she'd weigh no more than hay. She’d had breast cancer, someone said. Maybe her mind was not what it once had been.
There wasn’t much to be said for me either. I’d been promising once and was no longer.
Here we were: trying to start again and so little left of us. Better not to try, I told myself. Still, I couldn’t help it: every time I looked at them the doors of my heart fell flying open.
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