We worked in the garage all morning. It was full of forty years of Dad: coffee cans of screws sorted by size, coils of copper pipe, a dented metal lunchbox, and a calendar from a plumbing supply company still turned to the month he went into hospice.
Around noon, Travis pulled a cardboard box off the top shelf and set it on the workbench.
“Ryan. Look at this.”
Inside were dozens of envelopes and folded papers, all in Dad’s blocky handwriting.
They were ribbons. My science fair ribbons. Every one. The blue one from sixth grade, a red one from eighth grade, the regional first-place ribbon from my sophomore year of high school. My college acceptance letter from Ohio State. A program from my graduation with my name circled in pen. A printout of the company newsletter announcing my promotion to senior network engineer.
At the bottom was a sheet of yellow legal paper, folded in thirds. Written across the top in Dad’s handwriting: RYAN — THINGS HE DID.
It was a list. Dozens of items, each with a date, in his careful print, going back to when I was seven.
Fixed the neighbor’s computer. Wouldn’t take money.
Science fair, 1st place. Water filter. Mom missed it. I didn’t.
Drove 3 hrs in snow to bring me home from the hospital after the gallbladder.
Paid for half my chemo copays. Thinks I don’t know. I know.
I put my hand over my mouth.
Travis was reading over my shoulder. He was very quiet.
“He kept all of it,” he said. “Every single thing.”
I couldn’t speak.
“There’s one for me too,” Travis said, reaching back into the box. He pulled out another folded sheet of yellow paper and opened it. TRAVIS — THINGS HE DID.
It was shorter. Much shorter.
Made varsity baseball.
Got his real estate license.
Pulled me out of the ditch on Route 23, 2015.
At the bottom, in shakier handwriting from near the end, one more line:
He’ll figure it out. He’s slower than Ryan. But he’ll get there. Somebody just has to stop catching him.
Travis read it three times. Then he sat down hard on an overturned bucket in the middle of the garage, put his face in his hands, and cried.
I didn’t know what to do. I’d never seen my brother cry. Not at the funeral, not at the reading of the will. Not once.
I sat down on the concrete floor next to him.
“Somebody just has to stop catching him,” Travis said through his hands. “That’s you, isn’t it? That’s what you did. You stopped catching me.”
“I guess so.”
“I left you at the airport for five hours.” His voice broke. “I was at Britney’s friend’s house playing beer pong. I saw your texts, Ryan. I saw them. I thought, he’ll get an Uber. He always figures it out.”
“I did figure it out.”
“I know. You moved out, and I didn’t even notice for ten days.” He wiped his face with the back of his hand. “I’m so sorry, man. For the airport. For the bills. For the tackle box. For all of it.”
I looked at him, my older brother, sitting on a bucket in our father’s garage with tears running down his face.
“I know, Trav,” I said. “I know.”
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