She sat on the back porch, cigarette in hand, thinking. A steady white line of smoke rose from the glowing ember, twisting into the cold evening sky. Her eyes were streaked. Makeup mixed with tears.

Today her daddy died, and he’d never hug her again. She’d never see his crooked smile, or smell that cedar oak aroma when he walked into a room. He was a big man. Not fat but stocky. A body of a worker. He did everything. From cutting timber to hauling cargo. He flew planes and drove freight cross country one summer.

She remembered when he carried her on his shoulders so long ago. Through the county fair where the lights glowed all night. She was above it all on her daddy’s shoulders. He was always there for her. When skinned her knees when trying to learn how to bike. When she ran her car into a tree at 16. No matter the troubles. No matter her flaws. She rebelled at 19. Fled home and didn’t come back until 21. She’ll always regret those lost years.

But he was waiting on the porch when she came back. He said he was there every night from 6 to 9, smoking a cigar and watching the horizon, always hoping he’d see her come over. And he took her back without frown. Without a talking to and hugged her tight. He said he understood. He did the same when he was her age so long ago and his daddy waited for him. He’d always be there waiting for her, he said.

He walked her down the aisle and gave her away at 32. He loved his grandchildren and they loved him, too. He’d always be there waiting for her, he said. But now he was gone.

She sat on the back porch, cigarette in hand, watching the horizon, hoping he’d come over.