A letter from Papaw

Before light. Kitchen linoleum cool under my feet, that yellow patch by the stove I've been meaning to replace since '92.

The phone the kids gave me rang in my pocket last night and I missed it. Standing right there at the counter and I missed it. Buttons too small, and by the time I found the one that answers it had quit ringing. Set it down on the counter and looked at it and it looked at me.

Made supper for one and made too much, the way I do. Pork chop and beans and enough for three, and I ate what I could and put the rest in a bowl in the fridge that'll sit there till Sunday and I'll throw it out and do it again Monday. Ruth used to say I cooked like I was still feeding the mill shift. I'm still doing it. She's been gone four years and I still put too much in the pan.

Reached for the mug. Same one. The handle's gone dark where my thumb sits and there's a hairline crack down one side I keep meaning to throw out and don't. Ruth gave it to me one Christmas — I want to say '89, might've been '90. Wasn't anything special. Just a mug. She'd bought it at the drugstore because mine had chipped and she noticed. She noticed everything like that. Little things a man wouldn't think to mention and she'd already handled it before he knew it was a problem.

I sat at the table with it. The phone was still on the counter. Didn't ring again. Probably one of the kids. They'll call back. They always do.

Ruth would've picked up the phone. She'd have known which button before it was through its first ring. She was quick with things like that. I am not, and never was, and she used to laugh at me for it and I used to pretend to be sore about it and I wasn't.

Held the mug a while. The crack's a little wider than it was last year. It'll go one of these days. I know it will.

Going to pour another cup before it does.

Love,