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Sitting in his parish’s small counseling room, Father Greiten reflected on it all.

The roofless room Father had built for water storage was open, its zinc sheet cover lying on the ground and the ladder thrown near it.

In Fairfield’s hospital room, Father’s Day balloons float in one corner, and the wall is covered with pictures of him and Lauer.

He remembered now that this was the room Father had always had, till he went away to college and after that to New York to live.

The table set in the kitchen—for our humble cot does not boast of a dining room—father and Jim Wiggin collarless and in their shirtsleeves, and the stranded sheep herder waiting upon mother and me as if we were queens.