Exactly where Dad had parked it after feeding the calves on February second.
He’d died the following evening.
I found him the next morning, sitting in his recliner while the television continued showing cattle market reports.
He’d gone quietly.
And his old truck remained where he’d left it.
It was a 1994 International, once white but weathered nearly gray after decades of Nebraska winters.
The old diesel engine had carried feed through snow, mud, and summer heat.
There was a dent in the discharge chute from an accident Dad had never stopped complaining about.
I climbed into the cab.
Then I saw his gloves.
They were lying on the dashboard.
Two old yellow leather work gloves, darkened by grease and age.
The fingers had curled into the shape of his hands.
I sat behind the steering wheel, staring at them.
A faded seed-company cap lay on the passenger seat.
