Page 129 of Glitched Play

. . .

Witt

Letter 114 Glitch

We had a big family dinner and my Granny asked if I had a girlfriend. It puzzled me.

The drive to my father's house takes twenty-three minutes.

I know because I've timed it more than once over the years. Twenty-three minutes if traffic cooperates. Twenty-seven if I catch every red light downtown. Today it takes twenty-four because I stop for a school bus.

The house hasn't changed.

The porch swing still hangs slightly crooked. Dad always blamed the weather, but everyone in the family knows Parker tried to stand on it when he was three. Greyson caught him before he cracked his head open, but they told me Greyson fell on the swing and it’s been uneven ever since. I have never sat in it. I like things to be even.

The old wind chimes hanging beside the front porch still announce every breeze with the same soft metallic notes they did when I was a kid. I used to sit on the steps listening to them while everyone else ran through the yard playing football.

The house feels smaller than I remember.

Not because it's changed.

Because somewhere along the way I started measuring space differently. Stadiums. Executive offices. Server rooms. Entire data centers.

Yet standing here, none of those places seem nearly as significant as the little brick house where everything actually began.

Dad opens the front door before I have a chance to knock.

"You’re smiling."

I blink. “Hello.” Why is everyone saying I never smile? I do.

He grabs me into a hug. I’m comfortable enough hugging my family but it’s completely different than when Maci was holding me in bed.

Dad steps aside so I can come in before closing the door behind me.

"I love seeing you smile."

"I smiled?"

"You looked at the porch swing and then the wind chimes.”

I nod.

"You smiled both times."

I stare at him for a second. "You noticed that?"

He chuckles as we walk toward the kitchen. "Son... you think you're the only one who notices everything?"

The familiar scent of coffee greets me before we even reach the kitchen. It's mixed with fresh-cut lumber from one of Dad's latest woodworking projects. Some smells never leave a place.

He pours two mugs without asking if I want one.

Some routines don't require confirmation.

"So..." he says, sliding one across the island toward me. "Did you make another billion dollars?"

"No."