cab.
Then I saw his gloves.
They were lying on the dashboard.
Two old yellow leather work gloves, darkened by grease and age.
The fingers had curled into the shape of his hands.
I sat behind the steering wheel, staring at them.
A faded seed-company cap lay on the passenger seat.
Fencing pliers rested on the floor.
The cab smelled of diesel fuel, ground corn, and peppermint candies.
Dad always carried peppermints, supposedly because he liked them.
We all knew they helped disguise the tobacco he kept chewing after his
