Three years ago, I rented a storage unit after the divorce. I've paid forty-two dollars every month since.
I've never once opened the door. The key is on a hook by the back door, rusting.
Inside, I know, is a box of candied almonds in tulle from her wedding. I kept it because I couldn't throw it away.
Today a new hire showed up on the tug. Nineteen, hands shaking, asked me how to tie a line to a cleat.
I showed him. He said thanks, and I saw myself ten years ago, green and scared.
This afternoon I drove to the storage place. The key turned. I pulled out the almonds, still in the tulle, and left them on the office counter.
The lady at the desk said, 'You don't want these?' I said, 'I've been carrying them long enough.'
I canceled the unit. That's eighty-four dollars a month I can put toward the boat payment.
Some things you don't need to visit to know they're heavy. The new kid will learn that too. But maybe not today.