A letter from Papaw — Evening. Long day in a short way.

Spent twenty minutes hunting for my glasses this morning. Tore up the kitchen. Looked in the truck. Came back in and Hank gave me the look he gives. They were on my face. Had been the whole time.

Earl was over later for coffee. I told him about it. He laughed the way he laughs, then he got quiet a minute and said, "You know what gets me. It ain't the forgetting. I can live with the forgetting. It's the things I can't fix anymore. I used to could take a transmission apart on a Saturday. Now I take my truck to the boy in town and he plugs a computer into it and tells me what it says and I pay him. I don't own that truck. I rent it from whoever wrote the code. Same with the phone. Same with near about everything in my house. A man who can't fix his own things ain't the same man."

I didn't say anything. The screen door spring made that sound it makes. It's been loose since before Ruth got sick. I could fix it in ten minutes. I keep not fixing it because I like that I still could.

Got an old time card in a drawer from a place that doesn't exist anymore. Got Ruth's hand on mine the last night, and nothing in the world I'd have given to fix what was wrong, and no computer either way.

The screen door went again on Hank coming in.

Going to leave it loose.

Love,