I looked at him.
At the man who had worked half a century.
The man who fixed our furnace without being asked.
The man who had tried to protect me from conflict by pretending being excluded didn’t bother him.
“No,” I said.
“But it will be.”
Dad nodded once.
Then he went to the cabinet and took out two plates.
We ate Thanksgiving at the kitchen table he had built himself in 1987.
The turkey was excellent.
The sweet potatoes had gotten a little soft during the drive.
Dad took two servings anyway.
We watched the end of the parade.
Then a football game neither of us cared much about.
Mostly we talked.
About my work crew.
About the old Silverado carburetor he was rebuilding for a neighbor.
About winter.
About whether I needed to replace the weatherstripping around his garage doors.
He never asked again what had happened.
He understood.
