“When?”
“A long time ago.”
“I don’t remember anyone named Mara.”
“You wouldn’t.”
“Why?”
His face seemed older suddenly.
Not seventy-nine.
Older than any number.
“Because you weren’t born yet.”
I stared at him.
Behind us, an engine started.
Elena’s silver minivan pulled away.
Dad picked up his bucket.
I caught his arm.
“Then why did Elena think it was when I was little?”
Dad looked down at my hand.
When he answered, his voice was quiet.
“Because I never told her the whole story.”
He started toward the shed.
I followed.
“Dad.”
He unlocked the door.
Inside were tools, seed bags, coils of hose and shelves lined with jars.
Then he moved aside a wooden crate.
Behind it sat an old metal box.
Blue once.
Mostly rust now.
Dad opened it.
Inside were dozens of envelopes tied with garden twine.
Every one was addressed to him.
