Through the bare branches of the maples, I could see his vintage blue tractor parked under the overhang of the barn.
The blue paint was faded but spotless, the chrome on the exhaust pipe catching the noon light.
My father’s house smelled of dry pine and the woodsmoke from the kitchen stove.
Thomas sat in his green vinyl armchair, his fingers drumming against his knees as the television murmured in the background.
The room was dark, the afternoon light failing to reach the corners where his old farming manuals were stacked.
“The train tickets are three hundred dollars,” I said, sitting on the edge of the sofa. “And the room at the coast is another ninety a night.”
He cleared his throat twice, a dry, raspy sound that always preceded his financial lectures.
“I have some money put away in the bank,” he said, his eyes fixed on the blank television screen. “About six thousand dollars in the savings account from the winter crop.”
“You cannot spend your savings on this, Dad,” I said. “That is your emergency buffer.”
He rubbed his left wrist, his fingers circling the spot where his skin looked pale and empty.
