A letter from Papaw — Before light. Screen door propped open, air already warm.

Neighbor's boy — grandson, I mean — come up the drive yesterday afternoon selling something for school. Popcorn, I think it was. Catalog in his hand, list of names on a clipboard, tie on crooked. Ten years old and sweating through his good shirt.

I held the screen door open for him. Spring's been loose since before Ruth got sick, and it slapped the frame behind him the way it always does. He jumped a little.

I asked him if he wanted a glass of water before he started his speech. He looked at me and said, "My papaw says you're the one always got the door open. He said just knock, Mr. — " and he checked his clipboard for my name. "He said you keep a mug on the shelf for whoever shows up. He said that's why you got two out on the counter even when there's just you. He said don't be shy about the popcorn neither."

Then he said, quieter, "Do you want the popcorn?"

I told him I did. Wrote him a check for two tins.

Stood there a while after he left. The time card's still in the drawer under the counter. Ruth's hand was on mine the last week, and she squeezed once when I said her name.

Going to open one of those tins and see if the popcorn's any good.

Love,