The Position of the Sun

I was a few weeks shy of nineteen when I saw my father’s wreckage for the first time. The pickup truck had been towed to a junkyard storage lot, its contorted front end rippled like the bellows of an accordion. His was the only vehicle not covered in snow, if my memory can be trusted. The driver’s door that bore the name of his business, DeBoer Painting & Wallpapering, was twisted and misshapen. Only half of the letters and the 312 prefix of his phone number were legible. His dried blood had hardened on the chrome door sill and frame, transformed by its exposure to the elements into a dark and dusty crimson.