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
