Trash burned out in the backyard. Pieces of black ash floated in dawn’s light. A dog tied to a pole barked as cars drove by. Gutters falling off the side of the house. Paint chipped. His rusted Ford pickup sat in the driveway on concrete blocks. The old man looked at all of this. What a lucky man I am, he said. Lucky.

The trashcan was overflowing. Cans of beer in a cooler on the front porch. A bottle of Wild Turkey hidden behind the toilet. His wife inside making dinner; pinto beans and cornbread. She looked at her husband swinging in a chair under a tree. What a lucky woman I am, she said. Lucky.

Years ago, the Harvester plant shut down. Assembly stopped. A lot of people moved on. Left town. He took a job at the local grocery store. She worked in the elementary school’s cafeteria. They put in their time; not much to show for it; two bad backs from lifting boxes of food, washing dishes, mopping floors; there is nobility in work. Is there not?

At night, they gave thanks before they ate. Asking for forgiveness and telling God how lucky they were. Lucky. Lucky.