“Come back to me” were words Jordan remembered. The memory of his wife’s face was drawn in the smog of the city district.
He swung a sledgehammer and started to demolish a wall of an apartment building on Forty-eight Street. A picture of a young couple fell on the floor. He picked it up then brought the wall down.
It was late when he got home, but his daughter waited for him.
“I made dinner dad,” said the teenager.
Jordan sat down with her and tasted the meal.
“Jane, your pot roast is as good as your mom’s,” he remarked.
“Thanks dad, but mom’s is better,” sneered Jane.
Jordan stared blankly at the empty chair beside his. Jane instinctively walked behind her dad’s chair and hugged him tightly.
“She would have came back, dad, if only she could,” Jane said.