He reached into his pocket and gave it to me.
The paper was yellowed.
Arthur’s handwriting covered one side.
Maggie,
If you are reading this, you are probably trying to decide whether to throw something away.
Throw it away.
Except this note.
Keep this because I know you.
You spend your whole life making places feel like home for other people.
Remember to keep one place for yourself.
Love,
A.
I stopped breathing for a moment.
Daniel watched me quietly.
My eyes blurred.
This grief was different from the grief after Arthur died.
That grief had felt like falling through a floor.
This was softer.
A door opening unexpectedly onto a room I thought I would never see again.
“He wrote this?”
“Apparently.”
“I never saw it.”
“He probably forgot he wrote it.”
“That also sounds like him.”
Daniel smiled.
I folded the note carefully.
“He would have liked your place.”
“I think so.”
“He would have made fun of the community yoga.”
“He made fun of everything involving flexibility.”
We laughed.
I took Arthur’s note home and placed it beside his photograph.
Not inside the blue folder.
Some things should not be filed.
That summer, I flew to Chicago for the first time since moving west.
