A piece of paper Phil had carried in his pocket.
And two brothers finally saying things their father never quite knew how to say.
For twenty-two years, I’d wanted Dad to tell me I was good enough.
For thirty-seven years, Phil had wanted him to believe he could be a farmer.
Dad had died before he could tell either of us face-to-face.
But somehow, we found the answers together.
And every spring, when Phil drives the planter across the home quarter, I stand beside him for that first pass.
He always looks back at the rows.
And he always asks the same question.
“Did I do it right?”
I always give him the answer.
“You did, Phil. You did it just right.”
I think Dad would have liked that.
And every morning, when I climb into his old feed truck, I still glance toward the passenger seat.
For months after his death,kh I couldn’t bring myself to touch that side of the cab.
