New wood.
Same size.
My initials were carved on top.
R. M.
I opened it.
Inside were letters from former residents.
One sentence from each.
You gave me a door that locked.
You gave me time.
You treated me like I was more than my worst day.
You made me fill out the application even when I wanted to quit.
You taught me how to use a drill.
You did not believe my excuses.
You let my son sleep over.
You kept the porch light on.
You told me I could start again.
I could not finish reading.
Lily put her arm around me.
“You okay?”
“No.”
She smiled.
“Good no or bad no?”
“Good.”
Very good.
That night, after everyone left, I walked up to the cave alone.
I carried both boxes.
My grandfather’s old box.
My new one.
I sat inside.
The cave smelled the same.
Damp stone.
