to me at all.
My father did, but carefully. He called one evening while I was out on the back deck sanding down an old bench I had been meaning to restore for months. The sun had just dropped behind the ridge, and the whole sky had gone a soft, bruised shade of purple.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
I kept my hand resting on the bench. “For what, exactly?”
He sighed.continue reading …
