Part 5 – The Things We Carry
The smell of paint lingered in the house for two days.
Eli had opened every window he could, even propped the back screen with a book.
Still, the scent of fresh effort clung to the walls like a breath held too long.
He’d painted the doorframe and the porch railing — not because they needed it, but because his father never got around to it.
And now, every brushstroke felt like a word they hadn’t said out loud.
That morning, Eli sat cross-legged on the living room floor, sorting through an old metal filing cabinet.
Bills.
Receipts.
Letters from the Department of Veterans Affairs he didn’t even know his dad had been in contact with.
In the back drawer, he found a yellow envelope labeled in pen:
“If I can’t walk it anymore.”
Inside was a list.
Typed, but corrected by hand.
Cancel electric — account #402811
Call Harold (roofing) — may still offer payment plan
Notify Postal Union — pension paperwork incomplete
Mortgage: PAID (underlined twice)
Contact Eli — if I haven’t already.
Eli set the list down.
The words “mortgage: paid” hit harder than he expected.
All those years, his father never took vacations, never bought a new car, wore the same coat until it frayed at the cuffs.
And this was the finish line.
Not a trip to Florida.
Not a fishing boat.
Just a checkmark beside a house with leaky windows and a broken step.
That afternoon, Eli returned to County General.
His father was awake, eyes following the clouds through the hospital window.
“You painted the porch,” Frank said without turning.
Eli raised an eyebrow. “You have a spy in town?”
“Mapleton doesn’t keep secrets,” his father said.
Eli chuckled. “Well… the railing’s no longer tetanus-colored.”
Frank gave a tired smile.
There was a pause.
Then Eli said softly, “I found your list.”
His father nodded slowly. “Didn’t want to leave you with a mess.”
“You didn’t,” Eli said. “You left a map.”
They sat together for an hour.
Talked about the time Scout jumped through the neighbor’s screen door chasing a squirrel.
The time Eli broke his wrist trying to rollerblade on gravel.
The time Frank lost a paycheck down a storm drain and spent two hours fishing it out with a rake and half a broomstick.
They didn’t talk about the unpaid medical bills.
Or the letter from the Postal Union marked “incomplete.”
Or the retirement paperwork still unsigned.
But the weight of it hung in the room.
And Eli realized something.
His father hadn’t been trying to make a legacy.
He’d just been trying to leave less behind.
That evening, Eli stood in the garage.
Dust danced in the light from the single bulb overhead.
Scout’s old food bin still sat in the corner. Empty.
The leash hung like a quiet prayer on the nail by the door.
Eli reached up and took it down.
It still smelled faintly of earth and fur.
He gripped it tightly, then stepped outside.
Mapleton’s Route 6 hadn’t changed.
Same mailboxes.
Same cracks in the sidewalk.
Same front porch steps he used to sit on, backpack at his feet, waiting for his dad to come home.
But this time, he didn’t walk it alone.
A golden retriever mix trotted beside him, tail high, tongue out.
Her name was Penny, a rescue from the shelter two towns over.
He hadn’t meant to bring her home — just went in to “look.”
But she’d pressed her nose to the glass when she saw the collar in his hand.
Now she walked like she’d always known the path.
Like Scout had whispered the directions before he left.
They stopped at the corner house with the yellow shutters.
A woman came out with a basket of muffins.
“Your dad used to take one every Friday,” she said.
“Even when he said he was cutting back on sugar.”
Eli took one, still warm. “Thank you.”
At Briar Lane, a teenage boy called from his porch.
“Hey, Mr. Thomas’s son, right?”
“Yeah.”
The boy nodded toward Penny. “Nice dog. Not as scary as the last one.”
Eli laughed. “Scout just had strong opinions.”
At the end of the route, Eli sat on the same steps as before.
Penny curled up at his feet.
He pulled out the last envelope from the satchel.
One he hadn’t opened yet.
It wasn’t addressed to him.
It read:
“For whoever walks this next.”
Inside was a short note:
This route belongs to someone who shows up.
Rain, snow, grief — still shows up.
If that’s you… thank you.If that’s not you yet… keep walking.
You’ll get there.– F.T.
Eli folded the paper and placed it gently back inside.
Then he looked up at the sky.
The sun had begun breaking through the clouds.
And for the first time in days, he felt something ease inside him.
That night, back at the house, Eli stood in the kitchen with the radio on low.
He was making stew from an old recipe his mother used to keep clipped to the fridge.
While the broth simmered, he opened the notebook his father had kept.
Jotted in the margins were lists: grocery prices, notes about weather delays, scribbled reminders to call the furnace guy.
But halfway through the pages, one line stood alone.
If Eli ever comes back — tell him I’m proud.
Eli closed the notebook and leaned against the counter.
The house was still drafty. The steps still creaked.
And the roof would need work before winter.
But he would figure it out.
He always thought strength came from moving on.
Turns out, it comes from staying put.
Outside, Penny barked once.
He opened the door, stepped onto the porch.
Scout’s collar hung beside the mailbox, catching a bit of the fading light.
And the flag was still up.
Just in case someone needed to send something that couldn’t wait.