Mr. Harmon returned with tea and refused my forty dollars. He explained that after his wife died, he had sold not only her Buick but her sewing machine and piano because each object hurt to see. Every time he removed something, the relief lasted only briefly. Eventually he realized he had not been removing pain. He had been removing the places where memories of his wife could still find him.

I called Derek three times before he finally answered. I gave him only an address and instructions: Saturday morning, six o’clock, bring coffee and no excuses because his father had left something for him. He came exactly on time. When Derek finally stepped into the boat, the aluminum hull made its familiar ringing sound beneath his boots. His face collapsed. He sat down holding Frank’s box and cried harder than he had at the funeral. I wrapped my arm around him while Mr. Harmon quietly walked away. Eventually, Derek opened the envelope carrying his name and began reading the words his father had left specifically for him. Click continue reading below