left, I stood at the kitchen sink looking into the backyard.
The good silverware was drying beside me.
The pie plate was empty.
And I thought about Thanksgiving morning.
About foil trays.
A gray Indiana sky.
A seventeen-minute drive.
And my father’s porch light glowing in the distance.
He had left it on.
He always did.
Just in case someone needed to find their way home.
Some things take fifty years to build.
Respect.
Trust.
A reputation for showing up.
And sometimes it takes only one afternoon to realize how
