DAD MUST LOVE THOSE SOUNDS, each night from the love seat before the giant windows of the sun room, of kitchen pans clanging and closing drawers as a metal spoon scrapes the bottom of the pot. Six-thirty rolls around and it’s clockwork, feet kicked cross-legged and hanging over the leather arm, arms crossed, chin up, eyes closed. Dreaming, probably, of pork chops and applesauce and Tracy’s macaroni-and-whatever.
“Honey. Honey. Dinner’s ready.” A startled awaking, he hurries to his feet and makes a loop, scanning the feast, around the table to his chair.
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Pass the butter, the water, the main course. He must wonder of these in the shop, standing outside that giant blue garage door and staring away to the cars flying down Burdick. One hand on his hip and the other rested at his side, foot atop foot with a bent knee, then shift his weight, and again. He’d step to his pickup truck, the one I always thought too large for him, and he’d lean and drift again. This was his smoke break, cigaretteless; a getaway for thoughts. He’d think of what car he’d love to buy but no matter, he loves that ’88 Tercel to bits. Four wheel drive and a manual dream — whoooo-wheeee, like youth! Make an offer on it, he’d say, knowing full well it wasn’t for sale, it would never be for sale. It made his life too interesting…
And once his plate was clean, and he after he finishes the Daily, National Geographic, Newsweek — the diverge rests between the basement sofa, resuming rested position, feet-kicked-cross-legged, and the garage with his half-solved curbside collection, gadgets, and the waves of thirteen-ninety KRRZ radio that steamed from that curious, curious-shaped radio thing of his.
Dad must love those sounds.
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