His pickup beside a shed.
The garage door stood wide open.
Country music drifted out.
I sat in the car, suddenly terrified.
What if my son was right?
What if another woman opened the door?
I made myself get out.
My knees popped on the gravel.
As I walked toward the garage, the smell of fresh pine hit me.
Then I stopped.
A long wooden ramp ran from the garage floor up to the house door.
Wide enough for a wheelchair.
Smooth handrails on both sides, sanded so fine they looked like they’d been poured.
I rested my hand on one.
It fit perfectly.
Not Gene’s height.
Mine.
My eyes filled as I remembered every word I’d ever said about my knees.
My mother’s chair.
“How tall was she, Nance?”
Then I saw the paint cans by his workbench.
Pale yellow.
Six of them.
One label read: Buttercup.
My mother’s kitchen.
