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Father’s Day

A celebratory dinner at a restaurant for a party of eleven, not twelve, on the longest day of the year.  None of us broach the unspoken.

Later that evening, back home, while waiting for dessert to be served, I stand at the kitchen table, beside the orange tree with the watering instructions taped to it since December, 2007, to watch the sun set, further north than it has a right to.  But geometry doesn’t lie.  The table’s six chairs—lead weights from the 70s—are long in need of a wipe to rid them of that hotel-room-furniture stickiness.  The ageing white K-Mart freezer along the wall continues to chug away.  Dishes clang.  Crumbs fall.  The kitchen was my mother’s domain.

Night descends on us all.   That’s one truth we must never for an instant forget.

It was an early Father’s Day for my dad, in the second year without my mother.

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