Monday, September 30, 2013

Lunch with Dad

The waitress shows us to a table.

He orders the catfish.
Silently, I hear:
he loves catfish, and many places don't serve it. 
some people don't like it because it is a bottom feeder, he thinks that is silly.
he gets it unbreaded now, because of his wheat allergy.
I remember:
fishing with him at the farm, even though I didn't like fishing, just to be with him.

I order the chicken fried steak.
Silently, he hears:
I am watching my weight, but I will splurge a little with him.
I have always loved it, it reminds me of grandma and grandpa.
He remembers:
my story of eating it at the cafeteria in Cleveland, where nobody knew what it was.

We both smile.

We start talking, of all the things we saved for each other all week:
Quantum mechanics and astrophysics.
Programming languages and software design.
History of languages and old superstitions.
Problems with students and the grandkids teachers.

Unspoken, silent, powerful as a vast river running beneath us,
a steam of data flows both ways:
I love you.  
I trust you.  
I admire your achievements.  
I respect your opinion.  
I am proud of what you have made yourself.

Though our talk is stilled,
that river will never stop flowing.
I can hear it now, rushing beneath my feet.

A dark gate

My father passed away last Friday, quietly in his sleep.  There is no road that will take me to his side again in this world.  I am left here, and the world is a bit darker and colder.