A letter from Papaw — Monday afternoon. Quiet on the porch.

The neighbor's grandson came to the door about an hour ago. Skinny boy, maybe twelve, holding a paper bag full of candy bars and a clipboard. Selling them for the school. Band trip, I think he said.

I bought four. He stood on the porch a minute after I paid, looking at his shoes.

I said, "Something on your mind, son?"

He said, "Mrs. Combs down the road yelled at me. Told me to get off her property. Said she was sick of kids coming around begging."

I let that sit a minute.

He said, "I wasn't begging. It was for school."

I said, "I know it was."

He said, "Papaw, what'd I do wrong?"

I said, "Nothing. You didn't do a thing wrong. Mrs. Combs has been mad since 1971. You knocking on her door wasn't the start of it and you walking off her porch ain't the end of it. She's keeping a tally only she can see, and you can't get on the right side of a tally you can't see. Don't try."

He nodded the way boys nod when they're not sure they got it but they don't want to say so.

I said, "You sold me four candy bars. That's the part of the day that was about you. The rest of it was about her, and it'd have happened to whoever walked up that drive."

He went on down the road with his clipboard.

I came in and put the candy bars in the bowl on the counter. Stood at the linoleum I've been meaning to replace since '92 and thought about supper. I'll cook too much again. I always do. The mug was on the drainboard where I left it this morning, the handle worn dark, the hairline crack still holding.

Going to put the kettle on and let the boy's question sit with me a while longer. He asked it better than most grown men would have.

Love,