Read by Jim Cogan
What kind of a name was Meredith, anyway? Meredith. You couldn’t be a famous painter with a name like that, could you? Meredith Walker. He shook his head a little. He wondered why he was here. Her little front garden was full of what his father would no doubt call crap, but which Meredith called Art. Michael was still undecided, but he knew why he was here: he had to say goodbye. But of course it wasn’t goodbye. He’d still be coming home for things like Christmas and holidays and things like that. Right? Right.