LAKE IT OR LEAVE IT
COLE-PRESENT
The hardware storesmells like history. It’s a mix of aged wood, dust, and faint traces of paint. This place has been around for decades, holding secrets in the creaking floorboards and worn-out shelves. It’s been part of the town, part of me, for longer than I can remember. I’ve spent so many days in here, wandering through the aisles with Old Man Harris, learning the ins and outs of this place, his gruff voice explaining how the store used to be the backbone of the town.
He is always a quiet man, always with that slow, deliberate way of speaking, and when he talks about the store, it’s like he breathes life into it.
Today, he’s here, but not like usual. I still remember the day I found him slumped on the old stool behind the counter, clutching his chest with a pale, ghost-like expression on his face. My heart nearly stopped. I rushed him to the hospital, hands shaking the entire way. It turned out to be angina—scary, but not fatal. Still, it rattled him. Rattled me, too.
Now, weeks later, we’re back at the store. He insisted on coming back, said he needed to “be in it one more time.” I tried to argue, but there was something in his eyes that told me not to.
He’s sitting now, sipping from a chipped coffee mug like it’s the only thing anchoring him to this side of the ground.
“You know,” he says after a long silence, “when I was sitting in that hospital room, I kept thinkingwhat if I die before I tell him?”
I glance up from where I’m sweeping, heart still not recovered from the day’s scare. “Tell me what?”
He looks around the store, like he’s seeing its bones in a new way. Then his eyes land on me. Steady. Intent. “That what you’re doing here—it matters. It’s measurable, Cole. I’ve seen what you’ve done to this place already. And I waited too long to say it, but you’re the right man for this. You always have been.”
I don’t know what to say. The broom stills in my hand.
“I thought I had time,” he goes on, voice rough. “Time to pass the reins gently. Time to watch from the sidelines while you figured it out. But I realize…maybe I don’t. Maybe none of us do.” He sets the mug down, slow and deliberate. “So I’m saying it now. I trust you with this store. I believe in what you’re doing here. And I’m proud of you.”
The words hit harder than I expect. Old Man Harris has never been the man to hand out compliments. After everything, hearing them now is like a key turning in a lock I didn’t even know was tightly shut inside me.
I nod, swallowing the sudden lump in my throat. “Thank you,” I mumble. “That means everything coming from you.”
He nods back, but says nothing more. We sit there for a long minute, just two men surrounded by years of wood and rust and memory.
I wipe my hand across the counter, feeling the familiar grit of dust clinging to my palm, like the past refusing to let go. The wood beneath is scarred and weathered, each groove etched with years of use and neglect. But there’s a quiet dignity in the decay, like this place once mattered. If I put in enough work, it could matter again.
There’s a certain reverence in this space, even in its dilapidated state. I stand still for a moment, letting the weight of it all sink in.The silence here isn’t empty. It’s expectant, like the building itself is waiting on me.
I know the task ahead of me is no small feat. Renovating this store will take time, sweat, and a lot of effort, but there’s something in the air here that tells me it’s all worth it. Something that tells me it’s all going to come together.
Maybe it’s foolish to feel this certain. But hope isn’t logical. it’s stubborn. And I’ve been clinging to it like a lifeline.
I grab a broom and start sweeping the floor. With the bristles scratching across the wooden planks, each sweep sends a cloud of dust into the air. I pause, letting my thoughts drift, and they always find their way back to Cohen.
I can already imagine him being here. Darting around the place, full of questions. His curiosity mirrors mine at that age, always wanting to know more. It’s easy to almost hear his little voice asking how something works or how to fix it.
“What’s this do, Dad?” I imagine him saying, wide-eyed, pointing at some old tool.
The idea of him here, by my side, helping me with this store, fills me with a warmth I can’t quite put into words.
Cohen is still young, only eight, but I can’t help but imagine what it will be like when he’s old enough to truly contribute. Fixing up old shelves, learning how to work with tools, maybe even learning to run the register. The thought is overwhelming in the best way.
I’ve spent so many years missing out on moments with him, but now I finally have a chance to make up for lost time. This store, this renovation, could be something we build together. It could be our thing.
Maybe this is more than a renovation. Maybe it’s a second chance.
I shove the broom aside, pushing those thoughts aside for a moment. I need to focus. The store is a mess, and I’ve got a long day ahead. I grab a box and start hauling out old stock that’s been sitting on the shelves for years. Old tools no one buys anymore.Rusty nails and screws that have probably been here longer than I have.
As I work, I let my mind wander again, this time remembering a night not too long ago when Cohen and I were having dinner with Kenna.
I was grilling burgers on the back porch, and Cohen, as usual, couldn’t sit still. He kept asking questions, trying to get us to talk about the things he cared about. At one point, he started rambling about how much he wanted a boat. He talked about how it was time for us to get back on the water.
The way he said it with so much confidence, hopeful, like it was already a done deal made me pause. He had the same spark Kenna used to have when we were young. That quiet certainty that the world could still be good.
