So the truck was parked the way he parked it. Nosed out. Wheels straight.
It was white once. Thirty winters had turned it to chalk. The doors still had the ghost of a seed dealer’s name where a decal had peeled off years ago. It had the 466 diesel, a five-speed with a two-speed axle, and a mixer box on the back. There was a dent in the discharge chute from a morning in 2003 when Dad caught the corner of a feed bunk and said a word my mother made him apologize to the dog for.
I climbed up and sat behind the wheel.
His chore gloves were on the dash.
Yellow leather gone brown. Laid one on top of the other. And curled. Curled into exactly the shape of his hands holding a steering wheel.
I sat there and looked at those gloves until the windshield fogged up.
There was a seed corn cap on the passenger side of the bench seat. A pair of fencing pliers on the floor. The cab smelled like ground corn and diesel and peppermints. He kept peppermints in his shirt pocket to hide the fact that he still chewed tobacco after the doctor told him to quit.
