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.”

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.