Dear Dad,
The hour before the hurricane, I folded the tablecloth and wedged a magazine under the short leg of the folding table. It wobbled less than it did last time, when you were still up and about.
I remembered Mrs. Delgado from next door. Her son was my best friend in third grade. She'd haul four sandbags at a time, no complaint. Now she's moved to Florida, and you can't lift a gallon of milk.
The news said the storm would hit in sixty minutes. I checked your pill box, filled the tub with water, moved the lawn chairs inside. No one sees this part. The quiet work of bracing.
You were asleep in your recliner. I didn't wake you. The rain started against the windows like a hard shuffle of cards. I sat across from you at the table with the wedged leg and waited.
I thought about all the storms we've ridden out together, and the ones I've ridden out alone. This one, I'm doing it for both of us.
I never told you that before.