The call came on a Tuesday morning in October, one of those crisp Montana days when the aspens turn to gold and the air smells like autumn and possibility.

If Catherine had still been alive, she would have dragged me out of the garage by my arm, placed a knit hat on my head despite my protests, and said, “Tom, those boxes will wait forever. The leaves won’t.” We would have driven up into the hills with coffee in to-go cups, watched the trees burn bright against the sky, and pretended time wasn’t constantly chasing us down.Instead, I was standing alone in the garage at sixty-four years old, surrounded by twelve years’ worth of “I’ll deal with it later” packed into cardboard boxes that were slowly gathering dust and judgment.

My fingers rested on faded black marker on one box labeled “Camping gear – 2019” in Catherine’s unmistakable handwriting. I traced the letters without actually touching them, like even skin contact might somehow erase the last evidence of her presence. Dust motes spun lazily in the shaft of light pouring through the half-open garage door. Somewhere down the block, a dog barked at nothing. Life moved relentlessly forward, completely oblivious to my grief.