The rhythm of real work has always calmed me in a way that people rarely manage. Measure. Lift. Set. Nail. Repeat. There is mercy in a task that either gets done correctly or does not. A roof does not care about anyone’s feelings. It only cares whether you bothered to line things up.
By the time the light started thinning I had the kitchen side weather-tight and most of the living room slope prepped for the next morning. My shirt was soaked through. My gloves were gritty with tar. When I finally descended the ladder my legs trembled with the specific exhaustion of muscles that have been maintained at tension all day.
My father had set up lawn chairs in the yard.
Not for me.
For himself and my mother, side by side in the shade with a bowl of cherries between them like spectators at an outdoor concert.
