Dad lived in a small 1960s ranch house on a corner lot.
His detached garage had never had an empty bay for as long as I could remember.
There was always something inside being repaired.
A neighbor’s lawn mower.
An old 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.
Dad watched me uncover the trays.
“Karen know you’re here?”
“She knows.”
He was quiet.
“Everything all right?”
