Part 9 – Morning Promises
The next morning broke clear and bright, the kind of light that made the wet world look almost clean again. Sunlight poured through the kitchen window, catching on the steam from the kettle Kathleen had put on the stove.
Thomas sat at the table with Evelyn’s letter in front of him. He’d read it twice before she came in, but his eyes kept finding the same lines—Keep the good things.
Kathleen set a mug of tea beside him. “You’re up early.”
“Old habit,” he said. “Even when there’s nothing to do, I still wake with the river.”
She smiled faintly, then slid into the chair across from him. “I’ve been thinking. Once the mud’s gone and the floors are dry, maybe we could repaint. Fresh start.”
He looked at her for a long moment. “I think your mother would like that.”
They drank their tea in a companionable silence broken only by the faint rattle of the wind chimes outside.
After breakfast, they pulled on boots and gloves and got to work. The living room floor was first—scraping away the last of the silt, mopping in wide, patient strokes. Kathleen hummed as she worked, a tune he couldn’t place but felt he’d heard in the house before.
By midmorning, Mrs. Langley from up the street stopped by with a box of donuts and a roll of contractor bags. “For the mess,” she said. “And for you.”
They stood with her on the porch for a while, swapping stories about the neighborhood. Mrs. Langley reminded Thomas of the summer block parties Evelyn used to organize—grills set up in driveways, kids darting between sprinklers, the air full of laughter and cicadas.
When she left, Thomas turned to Kathleen. “We could do that again, you know. Not just the cleaning. The people part. Get the neighbors together once this is all over.”
She gave him a surprised look, then nodded. “I’d like that.”
In the afternoon, they tackled her old bedroom. While moving the dresser to clean behind it, Kathleen found a small, dented tin under one of the legs. She popped the lid and frowned.
Inside were ticket stubs, each one folded neatly: county fair rides, a summer concert in Knoxville, a baseball game in Atlanta. “These are all from when I was in high school,” she said. “I thought I’d lost them.”
“You didn’t lose them,” Thomas said quietly. “I kept them. After you left.”
She looked at him for a long time, then closed the tin and set it on the dresser. “Guess you were keeping the good things even before you knew it.”
He didn’t answer, just kept sweeping the floor, but his chest felt lighter.
By late afternoon, the house was beginning to smell less like river water and more like open air. They left the front door propped open, letting the sunlight spill across the floorboards.
Kathleen stood in the doorway, hair lifting in the breeze. “Dad,” she said, “I was thinking—after we get this place livable, maybe I could come up more often. Bring the kids. Let them see where I grew up.”
He wiped his hands on a rag. “They’ll have to bring their own bikes. The red tricycle’s retired.”
She laughed, and the sound was so much like Evelyn’s that for a second, he had to turn away.
“Alright,” he said. “Let’s make it a plan.”
That evening, as the light faded, Thomas took the shoebox back to its place on the kitchen counter. He opened it, looked at the letters, the photo, the music box, and the new additions—the letter from under the floorboards, the dented tin of tickets.
Kathleen came to stand beside him. “What are you thinking?”
“That maybe it’s time to add to this box,” he said. “Not just keep what’s old.”
She touched the edge of the lid. “Then let’s start tomorrow.”
Outside, the wind chimes gave a soft, steady song, as if the house itself was agreeing.
Part 10 – Keeping the Good Things
Three weeks later, the house smelled of lemon oil and fresh paint. The walls in the living room were a pale, warm yellow—Kathleen’s choice—bright enough to catch the afternoon sun and make it linger.
The porch rail was straight again, the wind chimes back in their place, singing to every passing breeze. Out on the street, folding chairs and card tables stretched from one end of the block to the other. Smoke from three different grills braided together in the air, carrying the scent of burgers, ribs, and corn on the cob.
It was the first neighborhood gathering in more than a decade.
Thomas stood on the porch, shoebox in hand, watching neighbors filter in. The Henderson boys chased a football down the street, Mrs. Langley laughed with Clara Howard, and Scout the stray wove between legs in search of dropped hot dogs.
Kathleen came up the steps carrying a tray of iced tea. “Crowd’s getting big,” she said. “Might have to dig out a few more chairs.”
He nodded, glancing down at the shoebox. “Thought I’d set this out. Let folks add to it. A little… history in progress.”
She looked at him, then at the box. “That’s a good idea, Dad.”
They placed the box on the picnic table at the end of the block. Next to it, Thomas set a stack of index cards and a pen. “Write down a good thing,” he told the first person who asked. “Doesn’t matter how small. Just something worth keeping.”
At first, people hesitated. Then the cards began to fill—Mrs. Langley’s memory of Evelyn’s peach cobbler; Rayburn’s story of teaching Kathleen to skip stones; a child’s drawing of Scout with a hamburger in his mouth.
Kathleen slipped a card in without showing him.
As dusk settled, the string lights overhead began to glow. Music drifted from someone’s radio—old country, the kind Evelyn used to hum while folding laundry.
Thomas found himself sitting on the curb beside Kathleen, watching the last light fade. “You know,” he said, “I used to think keeping the good things meant holding on to what you couldn’t get back.”
“And now?” she asked.
“Now I think it means making more of them.”
She smiled, leaning her head against his shoulder. “That sounds like something Mom would say.”
“Maybe she did,” he said. “And I just wasn’t listening yet.”
When the crowd began to thin, Thomas carried the shoebox back to the porch. It was heavier now, the lid refusing to close all the way. He set it on the table beside the door and opened it.
Inside, alongside Evelyn’s letter, the wedding photo, the music box, and the other relics, were dozens of new cards—fresh ink, fresh memories.
He picked one at random. In Kathleen’s handwriting: Finding my way back home.
The wind shifted, ringing the chimes in a bright, tumbling chorus.
Thomas looked out over the street, the glow of porch lights, the laughter still drifting in the air, and felt the quiet truth of Evelyn’s words settle into him.
He was keeping the good things now.
And for the first time in a long while, he was ready for more.
