He sat on his chrome-and-vinyl breakfast chair, watching rain spatter the window. The shadows of droplets and streaks doubled the deep-set wrinkles on his face. Wrinkles he constantly told me I was responsible for. (Not grey hairs, like other kids’ fathers. No, he’d gone bald young—my sister’s fault—so I got blamed for wrinkles.)
I looked at his breakfast: grapefruit, scrambled egg-substitute, wheat toast, cup of boysenberry yogurt. I sighed. After mom passed, he’d never prepared that much for me. It was always catch-as-catch-can, cereal with milk (except when it got chunky) or peanut butter on whatever bread was available (Wonder bread, English muffin—tortilla or pita, if he’d cooked something ethnic the night before). Then out the door with a mouthful of juice before the school bus left.
I glanced back at him. Was he crying? No, just rain dripping down the window. He wants to be stubborn? I can be stubborn, too. Like the day he spread Jif on the post-lasagna garlic bread instead of the leftover French loaf and refused to admit his mistake. He’d tried to make it up to Susie and me by taking us to IHoP that Saturday, but only because he’d used the same bread to make the PB&J he took to the office. Always PB&J. Made sure we had lunch money by brown-bagging it at work. Going without so Susie and I could have dessert with lunch like our friends. His thanks? Alopecia and Shar-Pei face.
...
Fine, if he wants piña colada yogurt, I can take boysenberry.
No comments:
Post a Comment