Kitchenette Set Realness, written June 16, 2013, Father’s Day
I just had a 20-minute conversation with my dad, which for
us is something of a record. We talked
about yards and yard work, property taxes and how he won’t have to pay school
taxes next year because he’ll be seventy-two, how he’d almost gotten back his 20-20
vision after two eye surgeries, and about his difficulty breathing because of
the heat and humidity. I suggested that
smoking might play a part in the latter, which led to him to issue a brief yet conclusive
statement that he will not see a doctor because of the possibility of cancer
and he’s already seen his wife and eldest son die of that. I could not argue the point.
While he talked, my mind reimagined earlier days. I remembered a battery-powered white helicopter. Since these were the days before wireless
anything, ©Whirly-Bird was tethered to a control box by a hard-plastic line. It could only move forward, even if in
circles, but that was enough for this kid.
Then I remembered the toy train that greeted me after I had jumped off the
Blue Bird bus and hoofed it up our gravel driveway. The engine was already chugging and pulling
the cars along, they too in circles. My dad
bought and assembled these moments of happiness.
Then another virtual keepsake of sorts popped up, from just
a couple of years ago. Greg and momma
were already long gone. Daddy and I found
ourselves in a rare moment of realness at the kitchenette set. Our vinyl-covered chairs allowed most things to
slide right off, but not all things. He
didn’t say much, but these words stuck and became one of my most treasured memories:
When you and your momma were down in Atlanta when
Greg was real sick, she’d call me and keep me updated about what was goin’
on. We knew he was gonna die. I used to sit right here at this table and
pray to God that he would take me and not my son. ‘Please take me,’ I’d beg.
His eyes were cloudy with tears that affirmed every word. In that moment, I knew that I already loved
my warts-and-all father.
Happy Father’s Day.
