I arrived at my parent’s house bright and early the next morning. My father looked astonished when he came to the door with his coffee cup in hand. “What are you doing here?” He rumbled, his voice still gravely from a full night’s sleep. “It’s not even 7 o’clock yet! Your mother’s asleep.”
My face crinkled into a goofy and awkward grin as I feigned enthusiasm and pushed past him into the house. “Oh, well…I just have a lot to do. The early bird gets the worm, right, Dad?”
My Dad shrugged as he took a sip of his coffee and closed the door behind me. I shuffled back down the hall to the kitchen, where I set down my purse.
“Do you want some coffee?” He asked, gesturing to a well-loved coffee pot which was still making the pleasant gurgling sounds of percolation on the laminate countertop. “It’s fresh!” He automatically began to seek out a mug for me.
“No thanks, Dad.” I said. “I’ve got to get to work.”
This was, perhaps, more astonishing than showing up as early as I had, but he merely shook his head as though saying, “It’s your funeral.”
Remembering how hot it had been up in the attic the previous day, I filled a water bottle with ice and fresh water and lifted it up to “cheers” my dad. He subtly repeated the gesture at me, as he got reacquainted with his favorite chair and his newspaper.
