Started pulling the boxes down in March. Four of them, mostly paper: a pay stub from 2009, a parking ticket, a birthday card I wrote him in shitty handwriting, two photos of a kitchen nobody lives in anymore. They've been in my studio since he died, moving from shelf to shelf every time I needed the space.

Today I drove them to a framer. Just for one piece, not the whole archive. A photograph with a water stain spreading up the left side. I asked him to float it, no mat, so the stain and the torn corner sit there in the open. He said most people want that cropped out. I said that's the part I want.

On the drive home I had the radio off and I felt something I did not expect. Not the sad thing. Relief. Like I'd finally let one small object out of my custody.

I don't know yet if that's a win or if it's me giving something away that I'll want back later.