She opened the top drawer and removed a small brass key.
It was the original key to the hidden compartment in the desk.
“I think,” she said, “we should put your father’s letter somewhere it can be found by the next person who needs it.”
I looked at her.
“Where?”
She smiled.
“In the workshop. Beside the photograph of our fathers.”
So the next morning, we drove to The First Cut.
We placed the letter in a small glass case beside the entrance, next to the photograph of two men standing in front of an unfinished desk.
Underneath it, Diane had a small brass plaque made.
It read:
A GOOD LIFE IS NOT BUILT BY AVOIDING EVERY LOSS. IT IS BUILT BY LEARNING WHAT IS STILL WORTH BUILDING.
I stood there for a long time, reading the words.
Then I looked at Diane.
Fourteen years separated us in age.
Thirteen years separated me from my father’s death.
