***
That morning, my nephew, Jackson, arrived with 12 empty boxes and no patience left for my excuses.
“You were on the kitchen floor for three hours, Uncle Andrew,” he said.
“Two and a half.”
He stared at me.
“That correction is exactly why you can’t live alone.”
“I slipped.”
He stared at me.
“And you couldn’t reach your phone. The doctor said that next time, you could be there overnight.”
***
At 73, I knew Jackson was right. He wanted me to sell the house and move in with him.
I agreed on one condition.
“Nothing gets thrown away without my permission.”
“Fine. You still have receipts from 1989.”
“Paper remembers better than people.”
“Nothing gets thrown away without my permission.”
Jackson picked up a box. “Where do we start?”
“Shaun’s room.”
Shaun had been six when he vanished. His cars and blue blanket remained untouched.
I picked up the silver watch beside his lamp and wound it.
Jackson watched me.
“Does that thing still work?”
“It loses four minutes a day.”
“Where do we start?”
“Then why keep winding it?”
“Because Shaun hated it when it stopped.”
I slipped it into my pocket.
***
We moved to Aria’s room.
She had been nine. She loved sewing dresses for her dolls, though every seam leaned because she pulled the thread too tight.
I slipped it into my pocket.
