I am watching papa unlock the garage door. The splintered black and pink painted wood rolls to the ceiling and the afternoon rain takes its place. My father unfolds a lawn chair onto the floor in the middle of the garage between oil cans, broken brooms, and cardboard boxes from when we moved. He leans back and stretches his legs out so I have to move around them. The sun that wanted his labour drowned at some point in the black clouds. Papa holds a glass of whiskey and sips the amber. I do a little zigzag as raindrops get in the garage hitting my clothes and hair. Smell of old shoes and lawn clippings mingle with the grease on my trike and earthworm musk. He beckons and I am sent inside to fetch the bottle of Chivas Regal.