The son stayed in town for a few days after his father's funeral. Toting a folder of death certificates, he drove his mother around to tie up the loose ends of the old man's life. They closed bank accounts, claimed insurance policies, transferred deeds. After their last meeting with the Veterans' Affairs Office, the son felt as if his father had died twice, once in the flesh, once on paper.
Over dinner, his mother announced she was moving to a nearby retirement community. She would be free from yard work and maintenance. She would be surrounded by people her age. She would find partners for bridge and maybe she'd even dance again. Her son agreed these were all good things.
That night, he slept in his old bed. Perhaps, he thought, this would be his last time, and this simple thought kept him up until dawn. After breakfast, he started a list of the projects he would take care of before the house went on the market. He unearthed his father's toolbox. How different his father's tools were—their nicked and blackened metal, their worn wood handles. These were the tools the son had first used, the ones his father had once placed into his tiny hands. The son went to work. There was much to accomplish and little time to waste.