Hanging from the hooks under the small shelf near the top there's an array of bridles, leads, halters, and ropes. Some neat, some entangled waiting for salvation.
In addition to the things in designated areas, there’s a collection of stuff I gather he just threw inside and slammed the door on. A new bag of horse treats. Some books on horse behaviors andtraining methods, because the man had an unquenchable thirst for knowledge. And three rolls of opened vet wrap.
Lastly, there's an odd assortment of tools: a hammer, wire cutters, two screwdrivers, and nails. A crapload of nails. Like an entire box of them tipped over, and the contents scattered all around.
“At least I know where to look if a board comes loose,” I mumble to myself, still amused with the disaster my best friend considered order. Then I move on to door number two. I don’t recall ever seeing inside this one.
The second I do, I almost wish I still hadn’t.
“He always wanted you to find your way back to this life,” Abe’s voice says quietly from somewhere behind me. I’d be startled at the sound if I wasn’t already stunned by the sight before me. The locker is empty but for a tear of duct tape placed across the edge of the small shelf. Right there, at eye level, my name’s been written in sharpie. Marking the space. Designating it mine.
“Well, goddamn, I really wish he’d found another way to convince me.” I force a laugh trying to hide the swell of emotions lodged in my throat. Then I remember it’s Abe, Trent’s father, I’m talking to. From the silence, I gather he’s not interested in using inappropriate jokes to cope.
I clear my throat, close the locker and turn around to face him. “I didn’t realize you were coming by today.” Change of topic is about my only way out of any awkward situation.
Abe takes another step inside the large office. “Figured I’d come help you get the place ready.” He glances around the room. First slowly, as though he’s soaking in the comforts of what remains of his son. Then faster, lingering nowhere as if afraid to settle anywhere.
“I appreciate that,” I tell him, moving across the room and stopping directly in front of Abe to block the bulk of the office from his view. As if that could somehow shield him from his grief. “But I’ll be fine.” I gesture loosely at our surroundings. “And I’ll box everything up. You can come get it when you’re ready. Or leave it for the kids. It’s up to you. Plenty of storage in the spare shed behind the garden to keep everything.”
Abe nods, then his eyes dare another peek past me toward the desk. In addition to keeping it littered in coffee mugs, paper and general chaos, Trent had picture frames lining the whole back side of it.
“There’s one,” Abe starts but his voice cracks and he pauses before he tries again, “The pine frame.” He points at the tallest of the pictures on display. “Could you?”
“Of course.” I hurry to the desk to get Abe what he came for. Only takes a few seconds and I’m holding the frame in question, looking down at the faces staring back. Fuck me, I shouldn’t have looked.
It’s of the three of us. Trent. His dad. And me. Taken the one and only time they managed to convince me to tag along on their weekly fishing outings. Every Sunday morning, before church, out on the lake they went. Every week without fail from the time Trent was seven up until the Sunday before he died.
I clench my jaw tightly, locking down whatever feelings might attempt to spring to the surface. “Here you go.”
Abe takes the frame, but he doesn’t look at it. Wise man. Instead, he keeps his eyes locked on mine. “He loved you like a brother,” he says gruffly. “I hope you know, I love you like a son.”
He reaches out to squeeze my shoulder. For a moment, we stand here, almost embracing, almost succumbing to the pain.
Abe is the first to shake it off and release me. “Let me know if you change your mind about wanting some help.” He starts back for the door. “I have some leftover paint from redoing the upstairs bathroom. It’s some peachy shit Tammy picked out, but I reckon it’s still better than whatever this is.” He gestures at the walls, most of them barely holding on to specks of paint that might have been white once upon a time, but now just looks dirty.
“I may take you up on that,” I tell him.
“Good.” He stops in the doorway and turns back. “Maybe you’ll take me up on going fishing sometime, too.”
“I’d like that.” I would have liked it back then as well. Not liking the idea was never what kept me saying no. Won’t be now either.
It’d be too damn easy to pretend, to fall into the empty spaces we carry with us. He’s lost his son. I’ve lost my father. Between a mutual love and a lifetime of familiarity, the guilt would eat us alive merely thinking we might be on the verge of replacing what we’ve lost, even if we knew we weren’t.
No, better to let Abe wait for something real. Something new. A natural progression. Won’t be long, and his grandson will be ready to pick up the family tradition. I don’t want to muddle up now what will be sacred to them later.
I wait, listening until I can't hear Trent’s father moving through the barn anymore, before I switch gears from processing to getting shit done.
This isn’t my first office, not my first time packing up another man’s life in boxes. When my father passed away, managing the aftermath that unfurled in the wake of his absence fell to me. I was the oldest. I was the one he’d been preparing the longest. No one had to ask me. I’d been told the responsibility would be mine whenI was fourteen, and my father first got sick. I had five years to prepare myself.
I was ready.
Then.
Today I’m not.
But it doesn’t stop me from falling into the motions of doing what needs to be done.
I live a messy life, but I excel in making the world orderly and so, several hours, boxes and trash bags later, I’ve created an entirely new space that’s neat and tidy and damn near down to the bones. Having only left the room to turn out horses, clean stalls and to retrieve a couple of protein bars from my stash in the truck, I’m more than ready for a break again now that the purging is complete.
