Thursday September 15, 2016
From an email from PTC
“It’s okay,” says Papa, chopping onions. He doesn’t cry, stoically bringing his knife down in perfectly straight lines.
“I’m sorry,” I say, sniffling.
“It’s just a truck, sweetie,” Papa pours the onions in the pan and glugs on oil and throws in a knob of butter, too.
“It was so scary,” I stand up and walk close. He reaches out and puts a hand on my shoulder.
“Did I ever tell you about the time I flipped my Papa’s truck into a ditch the first snowstorm of ’69?”
He stirs the onions, some starting to become translucent.