What is Kept

Spring

First Visit

She arrived in the early afternoon with her youngest daughter. They parked on the street, one house down from where they used to. The walk to the door was short and familiar, bordered by plants that had begun to recover unevenly from winter—some already green, others still brittle at the edges.

Inside, the living room was quiet but not still. Light came in through the front window at an angle that made the dust visible in the air. The chair by the window was occupied. Papers were stacked on the table beside it, aligned carefully.

Her mother handed her the pages without comment. The paper was still warm from the printer, the ink dark and faintly sharp-smelling. She tapped the stack once against her knee to straighten it.

“Start at the beginning,” he said.

She did. Her voice filled the room cleanly, steady enough to hold the space. When a sentence caught, she stopped and looked up. He met her gaze and smiled, already waiting.

Yes, he said, long and slow.

Her daughter sat on the floor near the bookshelf, shoes kicked off to one side, drawing with a pencil she had brought from the car. When the lead snapped, she frowned, reached into her pocket for the sharpener, and twisted carefully. The soft scratch of graphite briefly interrupted the reading.

They went into the backyard afterward. The garden stretched out behind the house in sections he had designed over the years—grapevines trained along a trellis near the fence, rows of raspberries beginning to leaf, fruit trees spaced to catch the light. Cherry and apple blossoms were already dropping, petals caught in the ivy that trailed along the stone paths. Older trees shed needles and leaves across the cobblestone, collecting in the grooves.

He knelt near the grapes and carefully lifted a vine, checking the new growth.

Not yet, he said. Give it another week.

Water moved through the irrigation lines with a steady clicking sound. He followed the line with his hand, pointing out where it split toward the roses. There were more of them than she remembered—climbing, shrub, ground cover—each pruned differently.

Her daughter stood near the koi pond and watched the surface break as fish rose and disappeared again. Leaves floated there, along with needles that had drifted down from the trees. The garden swing moved slightly in the breeze, though no one was sitting in it.

A cat crossed the deck and disappeared under the railing. A moment later, it returned toward the kitchen, tail lifted, passing through the open sliding door without stopping.

They stayed for two hours. When they left, she placed the pages back on the table. Her mother gathered them, slid them into a folder, and set it carefully out of the light.

They drove away the same way they had come.

Second Visit

They returned two weeks later. The day was warmer, the light sharper. Her daughter complained about the heat in the car, then fell quiet once they were inside.

The pages were thicker this time.

Her mother had printed them that morning and stacked them on the table in the same place as before. The edges weren’t perfectly aligned. She straightened them before sitting down.

“Take your time,” he said.

She read more slowly. Some pages echoed earlier ones, altered just enough to catch her attention. She paused, once, then again, marking the place with her thumb. When she looked up, he was already watching her.

Yes, he said, without needing to hear the question.

She nodded and continued. Halfway through, her voice grew dry. She reached for the glass her mother had set nearby and took a sip. The water tasted faintly of the tap—minerals, nothing more.

Her daughter shifted positions on the floor, leaned against the couch, then stood to look out the front window. She asked how much longer they would be. No one answered her right away.

In the yard, he moved more deliberately but still with attention. He adjusted a sprinkler head that had rotated too far, water striking the wooden deck before arcing back toward the beds. The boards were warm underfoot.

“Too much here,” he said, redirecting the spray. “They’ll rot.”

He showed her how the controls for the pond worked, where the switch was kept and how long the pump could be turned off without risk. He pointed out a plum tree that hadn’t set fruit and a young rose that would need to be cut back hard.

Her daughter followed behind them, stepping where the ivy thinned. A butterfly fluted from the raspberries and crossed the yard, then vanished into the roses. The cat watched from the edge of the deck and then turned away.

They didn’t stay long. When they went back inside, the door slid shut behind them, but the sound of water continued for several minutes afterward.

They left before dinner. The pages remained on the table, weighted at one corner by a small stone.

Third Visit

The third visit came sooner than planned. The drive felt shorter, though the route was the same.

The stack of pages was thinner.

She began reading as soon as she sat down. Her voice carried less easily this time. She reached the end of a paragraph and stopped. The silence stretched long enough for her daughter to look up from her drawing.

He watched her without speaking.

Yes, he said, when she finally looked at him.

They did not go into the garden that day. The back door stayed closed, the curtain drawn against the sun. Her mother sat nearby, folding and unfolding the same cloth in her hands. The fabric made a soft sound each time it was smoothed flat.

Her daughter moved closer and leaned against her leg. No one told her to move.

When it was time to leave, her daughter hugged him without being asked. He lifted one arm in response and rested it there for a moment before letting it fall back to the armrest.

The pages stayed with her mother.

Postponed Visit

The next visit was postponed.

Surgery had been scheduled. Dates were adjusted. Messages were exchanged and then left unanswered. They stayed home and waited.

Summer

First Visit

They arrived earlier in the day to avoid the worst of the heat. Even so, the air felt heavy as soon as she opened the car door, as if it had been held in place. Cicadas were already loud in the trees lining the street.

Inside, the house was darker than before. The blinds in the bedroom had been angled to keep the sun from settling on the bed. Chairs had been brought in and arranged deliberately—two at the foot, one pulled close to his side.

She took the one nearest him.

Her mother handed her the pages. The stack was thin enough to lift with two fingers. The paper felt different now—softer at the edges, corners already bent from handling.

Read, he said.

She did. He watched her mouth rather than the pages, his eyes tracking each word. When she paused, he nodded once.

Yes.

Afterward, he slept. The room filled with other sounds: the fan cycling on and off, the faint rattle of the vent as it pushed cooler air through the house. The sheet shifted slightly with each breath. Dust collected along the base of the blinds where the light no longer reached. The air clung to her arms when she shifted in the chair. Sweat gathered at the back of her neck before she noticed it. Outside, water struck the wooden deck in uneven intervals before finding its rhythm.

In the yard, he stood rather than walked. The heat pressed down on the back of her neck as he pointed out what needed attention. He no longer knelt. He did not touch the soil.

“Don’t overwater,” he said. “It looks dry, but it isn’t.”

Her daughter sat cross-legged in the shade near the koi pond, watching leaves and needles drift across the surface. Fish rose and vanished beneath them. The garden swing moved slightly, though the air was still.

They left later than planned. The heat lingered well into the evening.

Second Visit

By the second visit, the heat had settled into everything. The drive felt longer, the air in the car unmoving despite the vents.

There were no pages waiting this time.

Her mother said they had been hard to finish. She said it as information, not apology.

They sat for a while without speaking. When she leaned closer, he reached for her hand. His grip was lighter than she remembered, his fingers slower to close.

Yes, he said, when she began to speak.

She stopped.

A television had been placed in the room. It stayed on at a low volume, sound filling the space between sentences without asking anything of them. The image shifted, colors changing without pattern.

In the yard, he explained the sprinkler system to her husband, who had come this time. He demonstrated the controls carefully, repeating himself once to be sure it was understood. He showed him where the timers were kept and how to reset them if they failed.

“It’ll save time,” he said.

Her husband nodded and asked questions. She listened.

Wind moved through the open door and carried the smell of damp soil into the house. A leaf skittered across the kitchen floor and lodged briefly against the leg of the table before the air settled again. No one moved to pick it up. The air continued to move through the room unevenly before finally settling. The television volume rose briefly, then lowered again.

They left before sunset. The sprinklers continued to run on their schedule.

Third Visit

The third visit was the longest.

The birthday fell during a heat advisory. Cars lined the street despite it. The house filled and emptied in waves. Folding chairs had been brought inside and placed wherever there was room. The binder had been moved to the sideboard, partially covered by a stack of plates.

He sat in the same place as before. People spoke to him in turn. Some, he answered. Others he acknowledged with a nod or a lift of his hand.

A cake was set on the table. The frosting softened quickly. Candles were lit and extinguished in one breath. Someone cut the slices too large, then smaller ones to compensate.

The television was turned up briefly for a game, then muted again.

Later, when most of the visitors had gone, she sat beside him while her daughter slept in another room. Outside, the garden lights came on automatically. The sprinklers started without prompting. Water struck the stone paths and deck in overlapping rhythms, pooling briefly before draining away. No one adjusted them. It moved across the yard in steady arcs, catching the light before disappearing into the soil.

He watched it for a long time.

Yes, he said, though she hadn’t asked anything.

They left after dark. The house settled back into its own systems.

Autumn

First Visit

The air had cooled by the time she arrived. The light was flatter, the sky colorless enough that it was difficult to tell the time of day.

The hospital bed had been placed in the room. Its metal frame caught the light differently than the furniture around it. One chair sat at the head of the bed. Another at the foot. The others were gone. The folder rested on the dresser, unopened.

She arrived alone.

He was awake when she entered. His eyes followed her across the room. When she reached the bed, he lifted one hand slightly, then let it fall back against the sheet.

She took the chair beside him and leaned forward so he wouldn’t have to strain. The room smelled faintly of disinfectant and clean fabric. Air moved through the vent in short bursts, stopping and starting without rhythm.

She spoke a few words. He watched her mouth carefully.

When she stopped, he nodded once.

Later, when she stood to leave, he reached for her sleeve. His fingers closed and opened, uncertain. She placed her hand over his and waited until the movement slowed.

The light shifted while they sat there. She left before dark.

Second Visit

The next visit was shorter.

He slept through most of it. The room sounded different now—air moving through tubing, the low mechanical hum of the bed as it adjusted itself. The curtain lifted slightly with each cycle of air, then settled back against the window.

She sat in the chair at the head of the bed. The binder had not been moved. The vinyl stuck lightly to her arms. She adjusted her weight once and then remained still.

Outside, water ran through the yard. She could hear it strike the deck and stone paths in uneven patterns before settling into a steady rhythm. The smell of damp leaves and soil drifted through the open window and lingered in the room.

He stirred once. His hand moved toward the edge of the bed. She placed the call button within reach and waited.

He closed his eyes again.

She left quietly.

Third Visit

The final visit came sooner than expected.

She arrived early and waited while her mother spoke with someone in the hallway. When she entered the room, he was awake.

She sat on the bed beside him.

The sheet was warm beneath her hand. His fingers moved against the fabric slowly, deliberately. She placed her hand where he could feel it.

The room was very still. The pages remained where they had been placed. The only sound came from the equipment, cycling steadily. Light reached only partway across the floor.

Outside, the garden continued. Water moved where it had been programmed to move. Leaves collected along the paths and at the edges of the pond. No one went out to clear them.

When she stood to leave, she smoothed the blanket once, twice. He watched her until she reached the door.

She left the next morning.