A letter from Papaw — Late. After the lights came back.

Power went out around nine last night. Storm coming over the ridge. I sat on the porch with Hank and watched the dark settle in on the trees and the gravel drive and the mailbox down at the end. An hour, maybe. Couldn't see my hand.

Got me thinking about Earl's hands. The way his pocket knife is worn smooth on the bone handle where his thumb sits. You could pick that knife out of a hundred.

What does a man's hammer look like after forty years? What about his coffee cup? The handle of the back door he's pulled shut every morning since he was twenty-five?

I don't know. I'm just sitting here thinking about it.

First cold morning'll be here before long. I can feel it.

Love,