I add Papa’s knife and the coins to the jar, and when I go to put the box back in his dresser, I find another box. Wondering what it is, I slide it out. Written on top, in Grammy’s swirly handwriting, is My Mellie. I gasp a bit and slowly lift the lid, feeling like she might step out of it.

There is a necklace made of tiny stones in all different colors. It’s so beautiful that I wonder why she didn’t take it with her. But then there are lots of things she should have taken with her.

I’m surprised to find a ticket from a Mariah Carey concert. My mom wrote We Belong Together in blue pen across the top. I wonder who she was thinking about when she wrote that.

And there are two rings—the first is a small ring with a little stone on top. It’s beautiful. I slip it on my finger and admire it. I’d like to keep it, but Grammy would see. It can’t be a diamond. If there were any diamonds around here, I’d know it.

The other ring has a whale that wraps around your finger. I love it, too.

There’s a collection of root beer bottle caps. I guess she did like root beer like Grammy and me.

I place her things in the jar and fill the rest of it with toilet paper and screw on the lid extra tight. Then I carry it out to Papa’s shed and find his shovel. I find a patch with as few dandelions as I can and skim the grass with the shovel, carefully removing a sheet of dirt and sand and grass. Then I start digging the hole.

When it’s finished, I hold the jar one last time. I look down at the things Papa loved, and the hole he’s left by being gone feels so deep and wide, I can’t find a way up and out. I remember how he always smelled like coffee and he leaned forward and listened to every word when I told him a story. Missing him makes me sad . . . but at least there are lots of good memories, too. With my mom it is different—having to wonder what I’ve missed with her is a whole other kind of empty.

I place the jar in the hole and fill in around the edges with dirt. Then I cover the rest and replace the patch of long grass and dandelions.

Walking back to the shed, I notice Henry has his snow shovel out. It’s leaning against the front of the house like it does every summer—a reminder of colder, harsher times. He says it’s good to remember the hard times in the middle of the good ones. Never take anything for granted.

Before Papa died, I thought that was dumb. Not anymore.

Chapter 21

NOT-SO-PERFECT PICTURE

I come back from the drugstore with more prints for the Wall of the Left Behind.