What she did do was give her dad her phone number. They meet for coffee the first Saturday of every month at a diner in Vinita, halfway between her place and his. She says some months it’s good and some months it’s awful and some months they mostly talk about the weather. She’s still angry about a lot of things. She has every right to be.
Corbin goes with them. He says he’s the “translator.” Nobody has told him he isn’t, so he is.
Duane came to our house for Thanksgiving. He brought a pecan pie from the grocery store and apologized for it four times. Corbin told him the exact weight of the turkey, the number of chairs at the table, and that the pie was “fine but Mom’s is better.” Duane laughed so hard he had to take his glasses off.
I hang the picture from the wedding on our fridge. Corbin in his navy suit and mint tie, holding Kenzie’s arm, looking right at the camera like he knew it was a big day. If you look close, way back by the tree stumps, there’s a little blur of purple.
