It looked weathered.
Imperfect.
Right.
That evening, we sat under it.
Rachel.
Mark.
The kids.
Me.
No phones for a while.
Not because we were noble.
Because Rachel made a basket and said everyone had to drop theirs in.
Her children complained like she had outlawed breathing.
Then, after ten minutes, they survived.
We ordered pizza from a local place.
We drank lemonade.
We told stories about Dad.
Mark admitted he had been afraid of Copper.
“Everyone was afraid of Copper,” I said.
Caleb said, “I wasn’t.”
“You only knew old Copper.”
“He still looked like a pirate.”
“He was a pirate.”
The kids laughed.
Rachel looked toward Copper’s stone.
Then toward Dad’s empty recliner visible through the window.
“I wish he could see this,” she said.
I looked up at the sign.
SIT A WHILE
“Maybe this is what he wanted.”
“What?”
“For us to stop rushing through rooms where people are waiting.”
She nodded.
The sky turned pink.
The porch light clicked on.
For the first time since Dad died, the house did not feel abandoned.
It felt like it was exhaling.
Later, when everyone left, I stayed behind to lock up.
I stood in the living room one last time.
The recliner was still there.
We had decided to keep it.
Not forever maybe.
But for now.
