The maple had sent out new branches low on its trunk, reaching toward the gravel.

I set the shoebox on the table and lifted off the lid.

Twine, cardstock, the folded sign from the break room, three certificates, and the notebook resting on top of it all.

I opened the notebook to the back page, where the band had worn a groove, and wrote the date.

Then I wrote the first letter of his name in the margin, small, the way he would have.

Someone had left a cup on the window ledge.

I carried it to the trash, and the timer clicked, and the lights went out above me.

The yellow light remained.

Down below, the side lot was empty except for my car and the new man’s truck, and the leaves all moved together and let go.

The sunlight caught their green above the quiet parking space.