I drove inland on Friday. The storage unit was in a yellow building off the highway, and I had to bring my own lock, and the inside smelled like dust and old cardboard. A fluorescent tube flickered and then held. I stood in the aisle for a minute with the key in my hand because opening the door felt like opening a mouth.
The corridor was cold. My breath showed. A cart with a flat wheel sat at the end of the row. I had to try the key twice. The lock stuck and then gave. Inside, a moth had died on a box lid. I brushed it off with the back of my hand. The cardboard was soft at the corners from a leak that had dried years ago. I sat on the concrete because there was nowhere else, and the cold came up through my coat. There were three boxes. The first box was files from my father's estate. The
