The gloves are still on the dash. Curled into the shape of my father’s hands.
The seed corn cap sits right next to them now. Where Phil put it.
The letter is in the house. In my mother’s Bible, on the shelf in the kitchen. Theresa said a thing like that ought to be kept indoors.
But the envelope with the arithmetic on the back, the one with Phil’s numbers and the line drawn under them, is back in the bank bag. Under the passenger side of the seat.
I put it back exactly where he left it.
For four months, I wouldn’t reach over there. I told myself it was still his side.
I reach across to his side now.
It turns out there was room over there the whole time.To my son Wade,” the lawyer read, “the 1994 International feed truck, with the mixer box, and its title.”
