A letter from Papaw — Up early. Kitchen still dark, thinking about yesterday.

Ran into town yesterday for a box of screws. Fella behind the hardware counter — same one's been back there years, knows what I need before I say it — was ringing up an old woman ahead of me. Little bit of paint, some picture wire, a bag of potting soil bigger than she was.

He rung her up. Then he come around the counter, picked up the soil and the paint, and walked out to her car with her. Didn't ask. Didn't announce it. Set the stuff in her trunk, closed it, come back in and rung me up next like nothing happened.

She didn't thank him much. Just nodded. She's used to him doing it. That's the part I keep chewing on.

Earl's the same way. Sits on my porch step for a second and stays three hours. Borrowed my reciprocating saw two years ago Tuesday and it lives at his place now. He'd be at my door at three in the morning if I called and neither of us would say a word about it after.

Here's what I ain't said out loud before: I've known Earl thirty-odd years and I couldn't tell you the last thing he said about being my friend. I just know where the saw is. And that fella at the counter never told that woman he was going to carry her soil out. He just picked it up.

Hank's looking at me. Wants out.

Love,