I carried the books out to the truck.

The moving truck was really just Arthur’s nephew’s pickup with a tarp tied over the bed.

I had turned down a professional company.

I didn’t want strangers carrying my mother’s picture.

When I came back inside, Gary was still standing there.

“There’s a plate in the sink.

From my breakfast.”

“I saw it.” I walked past him to the hall closet and pulled out the last box, the one with the good scissors, my mother’s picture from 1972, and the spare keys I no longer needed.