PART 1 I got the box on a Tuesday. Bobby’s widow sent it through the mail without any note of her own, just my name on the label and the green tackle box inside wrapped in an old towel. I set it on the kitchen table and stared at it for a good ten minutes before I touched the latch.
We used to take that box out every spring when we were boys. Dad would drive us down to the pond before the sun came up and Bobby and I would sit on the bank with our lines in the water. He always let me use the good reel. I don’t even know why I remember that part so clearly but I do.
Dad died in the spring of 1993. The farm was already struggling and the barn roof had started leaking in three different places. I walked around the house for weeks trying to figure out how to pay for the fix without selling off more land. The tractor was still sitting in the shed. It ran fine. Dad had kept it up right until the end.
Bobby had already moved to Michigan by then. He came back for the funeral and we sat on the porch and he told me he was sorry he couldn’t stay to help with the place. Said his job up there needed him. I told him I understood. I did at the time.
The tractor sat for another year. Every time I walked past the shed I thought about how much it would bring. I told myself Bobby didn’t need his half. He had a good job and a house up north. The roof was leaking worse and the hay was getting ruined. So I sold it.
I used the money to hire two guys to put a new roof on the barn. It took them four days and the place stayed dry after that. I never told Bobby. I figured he wouldn’t care much one way or the other.
He found out anyway. Someone from town must have mentioned it because he drove down one weekend without calling first. I heard the car pull in and I knew it was him before I even looked out the window.
He walked straight to the shed. I followed him out there but I stayed by the door. He stood in the middle of the empty space for a long time with his hands in his pockets. Then he turned around and looked at me.
“You could have called,” he said.
PART 2 That was it. He got back in his car and drove the eight hours home. We didn’t talk after that.
I kept meaning to pick up the phone. I’d get as far as dialing the first few numbers and then hang up. The farm took most of my time and the years just slipped by. Every spring I’d think about that tackle box sitting in the basement and I’d wonder if Bobby still went fishing without me.
Thirty years is a long time to not talk to your only brother. I told myself it was his choice too. He could have called just as easy as I could. But I knew that wasn’t really true.
Bobby died in January. His widow called me the day after and I could hear how tired she sounded. She said it was quick and that he had been asking about the farm the week before. I didn’t know what to say so I just told her I was sorry.
The box arrived last week. I finally opened it on Friday night after dinner. The green paint was chipped in the same places I remembered. Inside were the two rod-and-reel combos we used as kids and a couple of old lures that still had dried worms stuck to the hooks.
Underneath everything were two fishing licenses. Both made out for next spring. One had Bobby’s name on it. The other had mine.
There was a folded piece of paper tucked under the licenses. I opened it up and it was Bobby’s handwriting, a little shaky but still his.
The note said “You could have called. I should have too. Your half is still yours.”
PART 3 I sat there at the table with that piece of paper in my hand until the light outside started to fade. The licenses are still sitting on top of the tackle box. I keep looking at the dates and thinking about how close next spring really is.
The paper felt thin between my fingers, like it might tear if I wasn’t careful. I laid it flat on the table and ran my thumb along the edge where the ink had smudged a little from his hand. The kitchen smelled like the old tackle box now, that mix of metal and dried worms and the faint oil from the reels. I pushed the lid open wider just to let more of it out.
I read the note out loud the second time, slow so the words would sink in proper. “You could have called.” My voice sounded rough in the empty room. “I should have too.” I stopped and swallowed before the last part. “Your half is still yours.”
The licenses were right there beside it. Mine had my full name printed neat, the way Bobby always wrote things out careful. I picked it up and the plastic was cool and smooth against my palm. The date for next spring was stamped clear at the bottom. I set it back down and touched the other one with his name on it. They must have been sitting in that box for months.
The light outside was fading fast now. I could hear the old fridge humming in the corner and the clock ticking above the stove, same as always. I didn’t get up to turn on more lights. I just sat there with my hands on the table, one on the note and one on the license that had my name. The wood felt cool under my wrists where the sun had stopped hitting it.
I thought about that empty shed again, how quiet it got after he drove away. But I stayed right here, looking at what he left me. The lure with the red paint was still hooked on the edge of the box. I didn’t touch it this time.
Bobby had gone to the trouble of getting these made. He had folded that note and tucked it under everything so it would be the last thing I found. I read the words one more time, out loud again, just the last line. “Your half is still yours.” Then I folded the paper back up the way it had been and set it on top of the licenses.
The tackle box sat open in front of me. I didn’t close it. The house stayed quiet while the last bit of daylight slipped away from the window. I kept my hands on the table and didn’t move to put anything away.
