My notebook, stuffed with loose pages and photocopies, is the first to go in. Then the pictures—images of the diary, copies of the letter and the map—followed by Dad’s notebook and, finally, the stack of postcards he sent me. Each item lands with a quiet resignation, as though they themselves are ready to be packed away.
It only takes a few minutes to fill the box. But I stand there for much longer, looking down at its contents while the lid hoversin my hands. This is supposed to be the easy part—the end. I’ve finally realized what I want. Once the lid goes on, the box can be sealed, and I can be free. No more worn paths in the rug, no more broken promises, no more relationships destroyed. And yet, I hesitate.
“So you’re sure, then.”
Mom’s words from the doorway pull me from my trance, and I press the lid down, as if caught in the act of something I shouldn’t be doing. “Yep.”
That morning, I told her I was finished with the museum and Dad’s research project, asked for a box, and told her we could start packing up the study. She’d complied without a word, leaving me to walk into the room alone, but I knew her silence wouldn’t last.
“Do you wanna talk about it?” she asks gently.
I check all four corners of the box, ensuring the lid is secure, then recheck. “There’s nothing to talk about.”
She steps closer. “Oh, I know that’s not true.” With a single finger, she inches the lid off and peers inside. “Wow, look at all this.”
I track her movements as she lifts the postcards, flipping through them slowly, before setting them aside and opening my notebook. Her hands rest on its cover, protective. “There’s still time, you know. You don’t have to pack it all away just yet.”
“I couldn’t find what he wanted. And I didn’t like what I did find.”
She reaches for my hand, rubbing it gently.
“I thought doing all of this would make me feel closer to him,” I tell her. “But it just made me feel farther away. Because now I see exactly what mattered to him, and it wasn’t me. So why should I care about any of this?” I push the notebook away dismissively.
Mom bends down, wrapping her arms around my shoulders from behind. “I’m sorry he missed so much. I’m sure he’s sorry too.” Her hands squeeze, surrounding me in warmth. “But it’s okay to care about the things he cared about. You can still be fascinated by your history, love it even, and not love the way he chose to pursue it. You can love it your way, just for you.”
She says it so casually, as if separating the two is easy, but it feels impossible to me.
“I think I’m angry at him,” I admit, my voice barely above a whisper.
She breathes in deeply. “I can understand that.”
I stare at her, a lump forming in my throat. “I don’t want to be angry at him.”
“It’s hard to be angry at someone when they’re not here anymore.”
I nod, swallowing hard. “And I don’t know if he would’ve changed or apologized if he’d had more time.”
She hugs me tighter. “I know.” There’s a world of unspoken weight behind those words.
We stay like that, the silence and what ifs hanging over us. I glance at the desk, at the mix of my research and his, unsure what to do with the ache in my chest.
Mom chuckles, her breath warm against my hair. “You’ll figure it out.” She grabs the box lid, holding it lightly. “Have you shown any of this to Goldie?”
Shaking my head, I ease away from her, and move around to the front of the desk to continue packing up the room, starting with rolling up his rug.
Mom’s voice stops me, and when I turn back, she extends the lid, her eyes thoughtful. “Maybe you should—you know, before you box it all away.”
Goldie is supposed to be painting the last section of the porch railing that morning. Instead, she’s lying on her back, staring up at a spiderweb glistening with morning dew in the corner. The paintbrush dangles from her hand, forgotten.
The floor creaks as I step onto the porch. Goldie jackknifes upright, a fleeting attempt to look busy as she lunges for the paint tray. But when she sees it’s me, not Mom, she drops the act with a sheepish grin.
Sunlight filters through the slats of the railing, casting dancing patterns on the porch floorboards. It’s warm already, the air carrying the faint scent of freshly cut grass. I sit beside her and set the box down between us.
Goldie scoots closer, the spiderweb instantly forgotten. “What’s that?”
A streak of white paint is smeared across her forehead, but I ignore that and nod at the matching one on her hand. “That dry?”
She swipes it across her jeans to show me it is.
