A letter from Papaw — Before light. Shed doors open, dew on the workbench.

Went out to the shed this morning to hang a rake back on the wall and there was the outline on the pegboard where the reciprocating saw used to sit. Drew it myself in marker twenty years ago. Earl's had it eighteen months. I stopped keeping the exact count around Christmas.

Earl came by yesterday evening. Sat on the porch step the way he does, took a while getting to why. Finally said, You know that saw of yours.

I said, I do.

He said, I know I've had it. I know I've had it a while. And every time I go to load it up to bring it back, I look at it sittin' there in my garage and I think, well, he ain't asked for it. And then a month goes by. And then another one. And now it's been so long I'm embarrassed to bring it back, because bringin' it back means admittin' how long I had it. So I leave it there. And every time I walk past it, it gets a little heavier.

He looked out at the yard a minute.

He said, The saw ain't the problem. The saw's just a saw. I could bring it back tomorrow. What I can't figure out is how a thing gets easier to keep than to return, when it wasn't mine to start with. It's the same with the call I owe my sister and the thank-you I never wrote your Ruth for the pound cake in '09. Small at the front, and then you look up and it's a boulder, and the boulder's the reason you don't move it. And meanwhile there's a hundred good things sittin' right on my kitchen table I don't even see anymore, because I'm too busy dodgin' the one thing in the garage.

He got up after that and drove off. Didn't bring the saw. I didn't ask him to.

Sat on the porch a while after. Hymn my mother used to hum came into my head from somewhere and I let it. Kettle's on. Going to sit a while yet.

Love,