I knew he didn't have much, but I was surprised at how little a person could own. Except for his books, some paintings and a rusty casserole, there wasn't much left of him. I had hoped there would at least be something to find there, to give me some personal insight in who he was, other than the stories I'd heard from my mother. I had nearly given up when I kicked over one of the boxes in frustration.

In the corner of my eye I could see a blue little thing skid across the floor. I rushed over, and picked it up. If I could just get this thing to read, I would have a chance of getting to know him.