hand.
He picked up his black polished shoe from the wooden bench beside his hip.
He held the dark leather steady with both hands.
Duane carefully slid his polished shoe into his black trouser leg.
I left my father sitting on his kitchen bench and drove back down the gravel route toward our place.
Travis’s dark blue Ford pickup was already parked in the yard when I pulled up at quarter to four. He usually stayed out in the north pasture until past six on a late autumn afternoon.
When I walked into the kitchen, Travis stood by the counter wearing a crisp, ironed plaid shirt I had not seen him pull out of the closet since Easter Sunday.
A white cardboard box from the bakery downtown sat open on the table, smelling of maple frosting and fried dough.
“You are home early,” I said.
“Wrapped up the disking on
