Sunday Night Special
Mar 16th, 2008 at 8:58 pm by Susie
So I’m sitting in the diner, picking at the turkey platter and reading a book a friend had recommended, when I came upon this passage:
In another life, we range from thirty-three to fifty-four, we have jobs, responsibilities, families of our own. Here, we are just our father’s children again, vying for his attention, cracking jokes, telling stories to our all-time favorite audience. The air is thick with cries of Dad, Dad, Dad, a name we can’t say enough because we know in a little while we will never have anyone to say it to again. Are you cold, Dad? Are you too hot, Dad? Daddy, how about a sip of ginger ale to wash down that pill?
The memory of the weeks leading to my own father’s death hit me sharp and strong, and I began to cry, sitting there at my little corner table.
“Can I get you anything else, hon?” the tired-looking waitress asked. I had to take a deep breath and hold the laminated menu in front of my face until I was okay.
“No, that’s okay. Just the check,” I said, smiling.
And my father, I added silently.
This is why I read you every day.
Thank you.
this post is very moving, Susie.
I miss my Dad too and sure wish he was here now.
(((hugs)))
Kid Ranger beat me to it; hitting the comment button I was thinking ‘THiS is why I read your blog everyday and miss you so when you are not posting’ Whether breaking down a global story or picking up a penny like this from the streets of your heart, what you hand us resonates.
You know what I miss? (Besides my father and mother….)
A diner where they serve turkey platters and the waitresses call you “Hon”…
Was it the Down Home Diner on North 12th? From a review: “The waitress was rude slamming our dishes down and rolling her eyes when we asked for juice that came.”
Sheesh, what point is the reviewer trying to make, anyhow? WTF? This is Philly!