Dad

Dad.

 

It was not a particularly unusual encounter, seeing my father at my local donut shop. I stop by there every weekend or so for a glazed chocolate donut and my morning caffeine from a medium Coke. My wife was waiting in the carMy father apparently derived his morning boost from what appeared to be a large black coffee as this is what he sipped as he sat at one of the small sterile smelling booths, so familiar to coffee-shop patrons, reading the morning paper.

 

I watched him for a short time, not really bothering to hide my presence any more than I was announcing it. Eventually he glanced up between sips and pages and looked my way. I saw a glint of recognition as his eyes met mine and a large grin appeared on his face. He put his paper down and I thought he was going to motion me to join him. But he just sat there looking at me with that smile on his face.

 

It had been thirteen years since I last saw my father. It didn’t look like he had changed a bit since then, though I imagined I must look considerably different from what I did when I was 22. He was wearing his work uniform as if he was on a break before he went back to his job at the local transit authority where he drove buses. He had often looked this way in the morning. The coffee in one hand, the paper and a cigarette in the other. Casually flipping through the pages of the days news as he killed a bit of time before his shift.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“What are you thinking about?” She asked, smiling and glowing in the radiance of the summer sun.

“My father” I said.

“I thought you said he died when you were 22?”

“He did.”