Ray never claimed credit for any of it.
When people thanked him, he usually pointed toward the garden.
“I’m only showing you what someone showed me.”
One evening, I found him sitting on the porch with the old binder on his knees.
The sun was setting behind the apple tree, and the driveway was quiet for the first time in days.
I sat beside him.
“Do you ever wish you could go back and change what happened before prison?”
Ray closed the binder.
“Of course.”
“Do you think people will ever stop remembering it?”
He considered the question.
“Some won’t.”
“Doesn’t that bother you?”
“Sometimes.”
He looked toward the garden.
“But if I spend the rest of my life trying to control what people think about me, I’ll have less time to do something worthwhile.”
He rested his hands on his knees.
“I can’t change what I did. I can only decide what I do next.”
