Don’t cover her up. I know how you get when things get hard. But this car isn’t just metal and gas. It’s every Sunday we spent together. It’s the patience you taught me. It’s the love you showed me without having to say the words.

I want Wyatt to know that feeling. When he’s old enough, hand him a wrench. Teach him the way you taught me. Tell him his dad loved him more than anything on this earth. The pink slip is in the other envelope. She belongs to both of you now.

Fire her up for me. I couldn’t read the rest out loud. The paper fell from my hands as I broke down, sobbing into my greasy palms. Seven years of pent-up agony, guilt, and unresolved grief poured out of me in that dusty garage. I felt a strong pair of arms wrap around me.

Wyatt, now taller than I was, pulled me into a tight embrace. He was crying just as hard as I was, his tears soaking into the shoulder of my flannel shirt. We stood there holding each other, leaning against the cold metal of the Chevelle, finally letting David go, and finally finding him again all at once.

We didn’t finish the car that day. We took the letters inside, sat with Sarah at the kitchen table, and cried until we laughed sharing stories about David. But the next morning, bright and early on a Sunday, Wyatt and I walked back out to the garage.

I turned on the old boombox. The classic rock station was still there. I slid under the chassis, reached my hand out, and waited. A second later, Wyatt placed the exact right socket wrench into my palm. “Alright, Grandpa,” Wyatt said, his voice steady and determined. “Let’s fire her up.”