A letter from Papaw — Thursday. Drizzle on the roof.

Saw an obituary in last Sunday's paper for a fella I sat next to in tenth grade algebra. Stood at the counter and read it twice.

Came home and made supper for one. Pork chop, the way I like it, too much pepper. Ate it on the porch.

I'm telling you — the pork chop on my own plate, peppered the way nobody but me would eat it, is the whole shape of living up here alone, and it tastes just fine.

Going to go put the saw away. Earl finally brought it back.

Love,