The box had been hidden tightly beneath the seat where none of us had ever noticed it. Scratched into the lid were the initials F.R.—Frank Reynolds. Inside was a green notebook, an old photograph of twelve-year-old Derek holding his first walleye, and two envelopes. One carried Derek’s name. The other carried mine. I sat on the dock because suddenly my legs could no longer hold me.

My letter had been written two years earlier, shortly after Frank received his heart stent. He predicted exactly what would happen. “If you are reading this, then the boat is gone, which means Derek sold it, which means he is hurting more than he can say. Please do not be angry with him.” Frank explained that Derek had always run from things that reminded him of loss. Selling the boat was not rejection. It was grief. At the bottom, Frank thanked me for thirty-six years together and added one final instruction that made me laugh through my tears: “Go easy on the boy. And eat something. I know you.” Click continue reading below