My dad fastened the last of the Ikea screws and went outside. It had predictably taken him too long and the sun had already begun nodding off. From the field and upon the great rock he felt like he could see through the house’s walls. He put his beer down and made a large gesture with his arms, palms open, as if holding up an enormous camera. He chuckled at me. “You know that Asian proverb? We’ll, now I’ve only got one to go.”
