A letter from Papaw — First light already warm. Sunday paper on the table, glasses on.

Read Curtis Neely's obituary in the paper this morning. Sat two rows behind him in high school. Hadn't laid eyes on him in fifty years.

Went to the diner after. Ordered the same thing I always do. Woman there filled my cup before I'd set it down and said had I seen about Curtis. Told her I had.

She wiped the counter a minute and said, "You know what my mama told me before she went? She said Sarah, don't you leave me a drawer full of nonsense for your sister to cry over. She said I spent sixty years knowing where every rubber band in this house lives and I ain't asking her to sort it out on the worst week of her life. She cleaned out every drawer in that house the last three months. Threw away things I'd have kept. Left labels on what was left. I opened her sideboard the day after the funeral and it was like she'd reached back and patted my hand."

She topped off my cup and went on down the counter.

Drove home. Went past the hardware store without stopping, which is unlike me. Sat in the Ford in my own drive a minute before I got out.

Junk drawer's waiting.

Love,