OxMag
Bret Anthony Johnston
of it. As a new pristine ragtop eased down and the rain grew quieter and quieter, I saw my father working those many nights in his garage: He’s stretching the vinyl taut over the roof’s ribs, riveting the corners, oiling the hinges. He’s listening to the intricate music of longing and weeping when he must. He’s watching the clouds. He’s waiting and waiting, whiling away the hours until a storm gathers and his son can appreciate the painstaking labor of hope, the coded, sheltering lessons of sorrow.
(Originally published in Ploughshares)
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