The hurricane is three hours out. I'm nailing plywood over the south-facing windows.
My hands are too old for this, but the kids are all scattered now. Boston. Denver. Portland.
I pull on his work gloves. The leather is soft, worn through at the thumb from years of gripping a hammer.
He was my teammate on the church softball league. He'd always grin and say I could hit better than him.
The wind starts to pick up, rattling the loose siding. I remember the hour before our last tornado warning, how he held me in the basement, humming off-key.
Ten years since he went. I thought I'd never feel anything again. But there's a quiet strength that comes from doing what he taught me.
I finish the last window, take off the gloves, and fold them neat on the bench. They still smell like him, after all this time.
The rain starts. I sit in the dark and wait. And I know I'll be all right.