The following Thursday, someone knocked on my door at six in the evening.
Robert stood on the porch with empty hands.
I invited him inside and poured him a cup of coffee.
Neither of us spoke much.
There were too many years between us to fill with a single conversation.
Eventually, we walked together toward the garage.
One trash can stood slightly crooked beside the wall.
Robert reached toward it.
I placed my hand over his.
For a moment, we stared at the faded lid.
The scratches.
The rain stains.
The ordinary dirt gathered around its edge.
It was only a trash can.
But to my father, placing something back where it belonged had always been a way of showing that people mattered.
Robert took hold of one side.
I held the other.
Then we straightened it together.
