I sat there for several minutes before touching Nick's box.
I almost didn't want to open it.
Lying across the top was a photograph of an old pocketknife.
I knew it immediately. The four of us had used that knife to carve our initials into the bench.
Underneath it was another bundle.
But these weren't letters to me. They were copies and originals Tommy, Ray, and Nick had exchanged with one another over the years, gathered together for me.
One from Tommy in 1973 mentioned me.
"Maybe we should stop bothering him. If Harold wanted us in his life, he would answer."
Nick had replied.
"I don't understand it. He was the one crying when we left."
Another, years later, "Do you think we did something?"
And finally, from Ray, "I think we have to accept that Harold doesn't want us anymore."
I lowered the page.
For 55 years, I'd believed exactly the opposite.
