Jim died fourteen months before that Sunday. He was out in the garage putting the blade on for the season, and his heart stopped, and that was it. Sixty-nine.
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The truck stayed where he’d parked it. I couldn’t sell it. Then one Saturday in January I turned the key, and it coughed and caught, and I sat in the cold cab and cried until the windows fogged.
After that I started it every Saturday. I kept the plates current. I kept the insurance. When the first storm came last winter, I went out at four in the morning in Jim’s barn coat and plowed the court myself, slow and crooked, because he’d taught me how the winter before he died. “You’ll never need it,” he’d said. “But humor me.”
