I found my father's old barn jacket behind the tractor seat. I'd been avoiding the barn for three years.
Zipped the pocket open and there it was—a prescription bottle. His name wasn't on it. Al's name was. Al who ran the garage in town for forty years.
I drove it over that afternoon. Al read the label, then laughed softly, the way old men do. 'He always said he'd fix it someday,' he said, handing it back.
The bottle was empty. Just the label and that name. I don't know why Dad kept it.
Al turned back to an engine. 'Some things we hold onto to remember we can let go.'
I put the bottle back in the jacket pocket. But I hung the jacket on a hook by the barn door instead of hiding it.
That's what letting go looks like, I think. Moving something from out of sight to where you can see it every day.