It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust from the bright white snowy street to the dim surroundings inside. The door jingles as I close it behind me, yet there’s no urgency to summon assistance. I’m just here to browse, to slip back in time. The smell of everything ever sold reminds me where I am. Black rubber boots with red soles, woolen socks and insulated navy coveralls line the walls. I run my hands over the gloves: leather, suede, cotton. My shoes drip moisture into the old wooden floors, which cannot be sanded down any further. In the corners, where I head, there’s still a sheen of yellow varnish. On a dusty shelf, I spot preserves and start to laugh at a memory, tucked away like the layers of merchandise all around me. I pick up a mason jar and remember the February decades earlier, when my dad stood where I now stand. Realizing it was Valentine’s Day, and the stores were closing, and he was out of time, he decided the thing my mother would most love to receive would be a jar of pickles. You can guess my mother’s reaction. “But they’re really good pickles!” my dad insisted. They must be, because you can still buy them twenty-five years later.