Dad wore a clean flannel shirt.
He always wore clean clothes to family gatherings.
He smelled like soap.
And underneath it, very faintly, like the garage.
Like work.
Like himself.
If Don noticed, he said nothing.
After dinner, Karen told me her mother had asked on the drive over whether Dad was coming.
“What did you say?”
“I told her he was bringing pie.”
He had.
Cherry pie.
Months earlier, he had asked our niece Natalie which kind she liked best.
She told him cherry.
He remembered.
Dad always remembered things like that.
He always showed up.
That evening, after everyone 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.
