Mr. Gable finally closed the hardware store today. He's ninety-three and his hands don't work like they used to.
I helped him take down the shutters. Each one heavier than I remembered.
Forty years ago he was my shop teacher. Taught me how to read a tape measure, how to true a board. He gave me the first job I ever had, sweeping sawdust and organizing nails.
The folding table with one short leg lived in the back. We'd prop it with a shim of scrap wood. Today I took that shim home.
I've done his taxes every April since I got my license. Never charged him a dime. He'd always slide me a jar of honey from his bees across the counter.
Being an only child, you collect father figures where you find them. Mr. Gable was one of mine.
The street looks strange without the green shutters. Like a face missing an eye.
I sat in my truck for a long time after. The honey jar on the passenger seat. Thinking about all the things a man can leave behind when he's too tired to hold them up anymore.