On the fifth day I found my grandfather’s toolbox under the sink. Every tool in its place. Every slot labeled in his handwriting. I fixed the leaking faucet first. Then the back door latch. Then the bedroom window that wouldn’t close all the way, which explained a draft I had been blaming on grief. Each repair cost almost nothing and gave back an absurd amount of peace.
As I worked, memories of my grandfather kept surfacing.
Walter Brooks never raised his voice unless something was on fire or someone was being stupid in a way that endangered others. He worked at the paper mill for thirty-two years and never once described himself as successful, though by the standards he respected—steadiness, usefulness, keeping your word—he was one of the most successful men I have ever known. He taught me to bait a hook, sand cedar smooth, read weather off the lake, keep spare batteries in the same place every time, and never use debt for anything that did not grow or shelter.
He was also the only adult in my childhood who saw how easily I confused being useful with being loved.
On the sixth day I started cleaning the paintings. Dust had gathered in the frame grooves, cobwebs in the corners. I moved through the cabin with a damp cloth, talking aloud to myself the way solitude sometimes encourages. When I lifted the winter painting above the fireplace, something shifted behind it. Flat. Heavier than it should have been.
I set the painting carefully on the couch.
