"I miss Mommy."

"I know you do, tiger. I do too." I adjusted the rear view mirror so I could see Raymond's enormous, sad eyes. He was strapped in safely, his toys and books spread out within reach of his little four-year old arms.

"We gonna see Mommy?"

"No. We're going to see Grandma. Mommy's gone."

"Mommy's in heaven, right?"

"Right."

"They took Mommy in a am-boo-lance. Right, Daddy?"

"That's right."

"Why?"

"Because she was sick."

"Like when my tummy hurts?"

"No, son. I told you. Mommy had a special kind of sick." I could hear my voice crack. "You remember how she told you she loved you, don't you?"

"Yes."

"Don't ever forget that."

He was silent. The road ahead was empty.

"Daddy," he asked. "Is it all right to cry?"

"Of course it is, son. Of course it is." I felt my body shake; I tried desperately to control myself.

"Then why don't you cry, Daddy?"

I pulled the car to the side of the road, got out, and opened the back door. I unbuckled his seat belt, held him tight, and we both cried. Like men.

BIO: After teaching writing and literature in college for twenty-five years, Wayne Scheer retired to follow his own advice and write. Some of his stories have appeared in Flashquake, Hiss Quarterly, Literary Potpourri, Scrivener's Pen, Quintessence Quarterly, and Laughter Loaf. In 2002, he was nominated for a Pushcart Prize. Wayne lives in Atlanta with his wife, and can be contacted at wvscheer@aol.com.