The day after the funeral, I put on my old work gloves. The thumb is worn through. I've been meaning to buy new ones.
I drove to the high school football field. The bleachers were empty. I climbed all the way to the top row.
That's where my father and I used to watch games. He'd say, "You can see the whole town from here." I never understood what he meant until now.
I've been a locksmith for fifty years. I've opened doors for people, made keys, fixed broken locks. But I've never been good at opening my own heart.
My wife, Clara, she was the one who opened doors for me. Now she's gone.
I sat on the top row, looking at the town. Everything looked small. My whole life, spent fixing other people's locks, and I couldn't fix the one thing that mattered.
I took off my gloves. The worn thumb reminded me of all the years I'd put in. But I'm still here. I can still climb.
I'll go back to work tomorrow. I'll open doors for people. Maybe that's enough.