He looms hesitantly through the frosted glass, then opens the door. He stares out, eyes like a South Park character’s, then his face fumbles a smile. I try not to overhug his rigid frailty. Inside, the house smells of dust and laundry.
Dad shuffles, hands shaking, to the kitchen. Carrier bags full of not-put-away shopping encumber the floor. On the table are several boxes from Meals on Wheels, some opened, some untouched. I can barely hear his dry mumble as he asks if I want a cup of tea.
webs on a box of
high tensile bolts