Eli turned the tablet toward his parents.
Onscreen was a photograph of a wooden airplane listed for auction.
“That’s Grandpa’s.”
His father glanced at it. “There are thousands like that.”
“Not with a crooked wheel and my initials under the wing.”
The packing box between them suddenly seemed enormous.
They were clearing his grandfather’s house. Eli had been told the airplane was missing.
He had helped build it during the last summer his grandfather could still use his hands comfortably. One wing sat slightly higher than the other. Neither of them had wanted to fix it.
His father reached into his pocket.
When he opened his hand, a tiny wooden propeller lay on his palm.
“It came loose when I packed it.”
Eli stared.
“You sold it?”
“I sold several things.”
“It wasn’t yours.”
His mother looked from the propeller to her husband.
“How much?”
“That isn’t—”
“How much?”
He told them.
The money had gone toward an overdue electricity bill. For a moment, Eli’s anger became confused by the knowledge that the lights above them had cost something he loved.
His father spoke quietly.
“I should have asked.”
“Yes.”
That evening, they contacted the auction house. The airplane had already sold, but the staff agreed to forward a message.
Two days passed before the buyer replied.
She was a retired teacher who collected handmade toys. She hadn’t known its history.
Bring the propeller, she wrote. An airplane ought to have all its pieces.
When they arrived, Eli’s father carried an envelope containing the refund.
The woman accepted it, then asked Eli about his grandfather.
He told her about the uneven wings.
Before leaving, she showed him a broken wooden train on her shelf.
“Do you think you could repair that?”
Eli looked at his father.
“We could try.”
Back home, they cleared a space on the kitchen table.
His father waited for instructions.
For once, Eli gave them.
End of Narrative
