Muncie, Indiana,

1970

Carter grabbed the arms of his rocking chair, grateful to have the support as he sat down. Even though this was the warmest day he'd seen in weeks, his joints had still swollen up like balloons. He'd barely gotten out of bed on his own, much less made it downstairs to the front porch.

"Hi, Mr. Carter," the mailman called, opening the gate to the yard. "How are you today?"

Carter managed a weak smile, trying to ignore the man's ever-expanding mass of frizzy hair. My parents would have shaved my head if I'd gone out of the house looking like that. "Morning, Isaac. I'm just peachy, or as peachy as you can be when your body's telling you you're old."

The mail carrier frowned, his tanned nose wrinkling. "How can that be? You don't look a day over 30."

"You're a bad liar. I've spent too much time working in the heat, cold, rain and snow to look or feel young anymore. I'm surprised I don't look more like a prune than I already do." Carter held out a hand. "Got anything interesting for me today?"

He rummaged through his bag. "Yeah. A package from New York."

Carter frowned. "New York? I don't know anybody there."

"Well, it's got your name on it." He handed over a large brown envelope and started down the steps. "Hope it's good news, whatever it is."

Carter thanked him and tore at the envelope with his sore fingers. "Blasted arthritis."

A smaller envelope fell into his lap, which wasn't sealed, mercifully. He removed the paper inside of it and unfolded it over his knee.

OOO

Dear Mr. Carter,

My name is Alicia Reynolds. That name probably means nothing to you, but I hope this one does: Mitch Harmon. He was my father.

Dad died a few months ago. He hadn't been well for a couple of years, so it wasn't unexpected. The ceremony was simple. We played his favourite song, Sleepy Lagoon, when it was over. I think Dad would have approved.

Anyway, before he died, Dad asked me to return some autographs from the Harry James band to you. I begged him not to ask me to do it (please don't judge me too harshly. I love Harry James too) but he insisted. He said you made him the happiest man in Germany by giving them to him when you were POWs and it was time they went back to where they belonged. I found them in a corner of his desk when I was helping Mom clean out the house a month ago. I hope they're all here.

I'm sorry it's taken so long to send them to you. I had to ask Dad's friends at the Legion to help me track you down. Plus, I've had a few moments, if you know what I mean. It hasn't been an easy few months. It felt so strange going through Dad's things— deciding what to keep and what to throw away, as if none of it ever had any meaning. I kept expecting him to pop up in a doorway and yell at me for invading his privacy. Now, in some ways, it's like he was never there. Is this all a person leaves behind when they die? Is there nothing else to prove you existed other than a few pictures, letters and clothes? Will it be this hard for my children when they do the same thing for me?

But that's enough of my rambling. Again, sorry for the delay. I hope you understand.

Warmest regards,

Alicia (Harmon) Reynolds

OOO

Carter looked up, suddenly aware of the familiar melody softly coaxing its way into his ears.

Must've left the radio in the kitchen on, he thought. That's Sleepy Lagoon. Huh. I haven't heard that recording in at least 25 years.

He leaned back in his chair and allowed a small smile to form on his lips as the music enveloped him in comfort once again.