Carol said:
“Do you miss her less now?”
Elias thought.
“No.”
“Really?”
“I miss her differently.”
“How?”
He looked toward the workshop.
“At first, missing her took up the whole room.”
“Now she can sit in the room with other things.”
Carol nodded slowly.
“That makes sense.”
It did.
Grief had not shrunk.
Life had expanded around it.
Three years after the first market Saturday, Elias received an invitation from the town arts council.
They wanted to feature Mercer & Ruth in an exhibition about regional craft traditions.
Elias almost said no.
The word exhibition sounded ridiculous.
His boxes belonged in bedrooms.
Entryways.
Kitchen shelves.
Not behind glass.
Daniel convinced him.
“They aren't asking you to become a museum.”
“Good.”
“Raymond said the same thing.”
“Who?”
“Never mind.”
The exhibition included twelve pieces.
Early work.
Recent work.
Ruth’s first jewelry box.
The one she had called a coffin for earrings.
Hannah lent it.
Paint chipped.
Hinges slightly tarnished.
Still beautiful.
Beside it, a recent walnut keepsake box.
Stronger joinery.
Cleaner finish.
Same blue wildflowers.
The curator asked Elias to write a short statement.
He hated writing statements.
Finally he submitted four lines:
Ruth painted the first flowers.
I cut the first joints.
For forty-eight years, we kept teaching each other where to slow down.
I still do.
The curator kept it exactly as written.
Opening night drew more people than Elias expected.
Marla came.
She stood in front of Ruth’s first box.
Long time.
Elias approached.
“You all right?”
She looked at him.
“I owe you an apology.”
He almost joked.
Then saw she was serious.
“For the first Saturday?”
“Yes.”
“You apologized eventually.”
“No.”
“I stopped being rude eventually.”
“That isn't the same thing.”
Fair.
Marla looked toward the case.
“I thought I knew what sold.”
“You usually do.”
“That’s the problem.”
She sighed.
“I started believing I knew what had value before people looked.”
Elias waited.
She continued.
“I was cruel.”
“Yes.”
Marla gave him a look.
“You could soften it.”
“You asked.”
She laughed.
Then:
“I’m sorry.”
Elias nodded.
“I know.”
“No.”
“Say something.”
“What?”
“That you forgive me.”
He thought.
“I stopped carrying it a long time ago.”
Marla looked at him.
“Is that forgiveness?”
“Close enough for me.”
She nodded.
Then pointed toward Ruth’s box.
“It really did look like a coffin.”
Elias laughed so loudly the curator turned around.
“That’s what she said.”
At seventy-six, Elias finally reduced production.
Hands.
Eyes.
Energy.
He still made boxes.
Fewer.
The table remained at Briarwood Market one Saturday each month.
Lucy, now in college, sometimes helped.
She painted her own flowers.
Different style.
Bolder.