“I know,” Dad called back steadily.

“Should you not come inside and put on a clean shirt?” I suggested.

He looked down at his faded blue work shirt, which was worn thin at the elbows and had a slight tear near the pocket.

“What is wrong with my shirt?” he asked simply.

“Nothing at all,” I sighed.

“Never mind.”

I sat down on the wooden back porch steps with a mug of hot coffee and watched him work quietly in the quiet morning light.

The sun rose above the tree line, illuminating the garden in rich gold tones while bees hovered around yellow squash blossoms and a robin searched for worms in the fresh soil.