pickup.
A friend’s snowblower.
Something.
The porch light was on.
It almost always was.
I knocked.
Dad opened the door, looked at me, then at the foil trays in my arms.
Then back at me.
“Rick?”
“Happy Thanksgiving, Dad.”
He stared another second.
“You planning on standing out there all day?”
He stepped aside.
His house smelled like coffee, pine cleaner, and the faint trace of motor oil that seemed permanently woven into everything he owned.
I had always found it comforting.
I put the food on his kitchen table.
