Father’s Day (Common Sense)

Vanilla Grill (Common Sense)

Vanilla-scented astilbe crowds the rusted grill.  Its doors still glide open with a smart “snick”. Spiders and leaves fill the void around the cold propane tank. I raise the silent lid, turn the knob, click-click-click, and a blue flame whooshes just short of my face, settles to a steady rumble.

This is not my father’s grill.

My father would have thrown it away - a little rust, a feature it didn’t have and he didn’t need, one burnt burger - always discarding, searching for that thing he didn’t have and couldn’t name.

Love grows here.

This is not my father’s grill.

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