side door swung open.
And my father walked through it.
My whole chest let go of something I’d been holding since Tuesday supper.
He was wearing his tan Sunday sport coat. The one he wore to my mother’s funeral. And to Mason’s baptism. And to nothing in between.
Under it, a white shirt buttoned all the way to the top.
And on his head, his seed corn cap. The good one. The green one he keeps on the hook by the back door and only wears to town.
His cane
