We had been married for thirty-five years before she passed away. The picture had been taken on our wedding day outside a small church in Nampa. I wore a borrowed brown suit, and Ruth wore a simple white dress altered by her mother.
She was laughing because the wind kept lifting her veil.
For years, that photograph had stood above the fireplace. Now water had soaked through the cardboard backing.
Beneath several coats, I found the Timex watch Ruth had given me for our tenth anniversary. Its face was broken, and the leather strap was ruined.
“It isn’t expensive,” she had told me when I opened it. “But it’s dependable. Like you.”
I had worn that watch to our son Gary’s graduation, his wedding, Ruth’s final hospital appointment, and the day I made the last mortgage payment.
Now it sat damaged in my palm.
I searched through the boxes until I found my fireproof document case. The latch was bent, but it remained closed. Inside were the deed, tax records, mortgage statements, insurance papers, and Ruth’s letters.
I carried it to my truck, then approached the front door.
My key entered the lock but would not turn.
They had changed it.
I called Gary.
No answer.
“Gary, it’s Dad. I’m home. My belongings are outside, and my key doesn’t work. Call me immediately.”
