Chapter 13: Ordinary Days
Autumn settled over Silver City in slow layers of cooler air and longer shadows.
My father worked five days a week at the community gardens. On Saturdays he still took a few private jobs for elderly clients who had depended on him for years and did not want anyone else touching their roses. On Sundays we cooked simple meals and sat on the porch while the two young citrus trees held their ground against the changing season.
I returned to full-time work. The days regained a steady shape. There were mornings when the memory of the wedding still surfaced—usually in the form of a sudden, sharp anger at how small my father had been made to feel—but the anger no longer dominated. It passed through like weather.
One Sunday afternoon I found him at the kitchen table with the medal case open. He was not wearing the medal. He was simply looking at it.
“You ever regret going back for the radio that day?” I asked.
He closed the case gently.
“No. But I regret that it took this long for you to know that part of me. I thought keeping it quiet was the same as being humble. Maybe it was just easier.”
I sat across from him.
“I know it now,” I said. “That’s enough.”
May you like
He reached across the table and briefly covered my hand with his.
The skin was still rough from decades of soil and tools. It remained, to me, the safest texture in the world.
