The house was the same as it had ever been. Hot humid air laid over the hillside like the worst kind of blanket. There was nothing comfortable about it. The buzz of summer insects was incessant and grating. The smell of honeysuckle vines made the air too sweet. Every sense was being assaulted in some way.
   Papaw’s old Ford was sitting under the carport that looked like the only thing holding it up was the stack of milkcrates along one side. The keys were probably in it like they had been for the past 40 years. No one was going to wander this far out of town to steal it. If they could even figure out how to jimmy open the broken door handle and then drive the old 4-speed out of here. The whole town would recognize it as soon as the theoretical thief made it back with his prize.
   But I’m wasting time. Standing here fantasizing about would-be car thieves was delaying the inevitable. The first order of business is getting the house open. The air inside would be twice as hot as the yard. Papaw was adamant he didn’t need air conditioning. Even a small window unit to help him sleep had been rejected. The key was in the same flowerpot it had always been in as well. I was surprised to find the front door locked at all. I don’t think I’d ever actually used the key that we all knew was there “for emergencies”.
   The house is quiet except for the fridge running in the kitchen. I was banking on there being at least a couple of cold beers in there to counteract the house. I had been right. The temperature in the house was blistering. Thankfully the windows were in good shape and opened without much fighting. The place is small and dated but everything in it is in good working order and could be counted on to do its job. I found the box fan in the bedroom and placed it back on the sill to move some of the air back outside and draw in fresh. The sickly sweet smell of the honeysuckle drifted in as well.
   The bed was already made. No laundry was in the hamper. The floors needed a good sweep. With summer preparing for its best, the dust and clay had begun sticking to boots to infiltrate the house. The linoleum had seen better days. Grandma Fay must’ve picked this stuff out in the 80s. The orange and cream pattern was worn almost through near the sink and stove. The fan added its own hum to the hum of the summer bugs outside. The fridge indeed had beer in it.
   Windows open, fan set to high, beer in hand I made my way out the back door. I felt like I was 10 again running through the back door with a couple of cousins in tow. No matter how many times I came back to Papaw’s place I remembered years of childhood summers spent bushwacking, terrorizing, plotting, warring, and generally living my best life without thought or care. I had caught every crawdad and salamander around for 5 miles. The local wildlife, and neighbors, had ran in terror whenever we had descended on Papaw’s house for our summer freedom.
   The back porch had a couple of ceiling fans on it. I turned them on high and hoped for the best. The “best room in the house” could be counted on to have comfortable chairs, a swing to idle away on, and at least one cat. Said cat slunk out from under the steps and mewed for an ear scratching. Across the yard, the garden was in full show. I could see some tomatoes ready to bring in and I was sure there were green beans to be snapped and blanched. The okra looked like a mini forest and had taken over its corner of the yard in earnest.
   The beer was already sweating and leaving a puddle of condensation on the wood of the porch. I sat down on the steps and stared across the yard. The tabby cat stretching out across the cool dirt next to the porch. It was strange the way your own mind could betray you and ambush you. Papaw wasn’t coming home. The house was opened and airing out. The truck was ready to go into town for the grocery run. We were running low on beer after all. But Papaw wouldn’t be making the beer run this week.
   It was the clothesline that did it. Grandma Fay had hung clothes on the line every summer. Claiming the sunshine and air was better for clothes and sheets than any fabric softener. That clothesline ran along the yard before you got to the fruit trees at the edge of the hay field. The clothesline was the traitor. It held the most recent reminders. Papaw’s socks were hung out neatly just like Grandma Fay used to. They’d been out there for weeks now. Papaw had been buried 2 weeks ago. Grandma Fay had left us years and years before. He hadn’t had a chance to finish his laundry. The morning chores had been done. Bed made, laundry washed and hung. He hadn’t gotten to sweep or bring in the laundry.
   I couldn’t bring myself to bring it in either.