Sunrise

I can see you, in my mind's eye, seated with your back to the window, reading your newspaper. Caffeine and cig on the coffee table beside you. We were morning persons. I still am. I would be up at 5am and always I would find you in the front room, there ahead of me. The sun would rise while we sat there, filling the room with light as you read the main page and I, the comics page. I seem to be the only person who remembers seeing you this way, in the morning hour when everything is cool and fresh, and the handsomest man in the world loved -- loves -- me.

Then, you would make me breakfast. Eggs, I remember. Scrambled? or sunny side? you would ask. And I would always answer sunny side up. And you always made them perfectly, with the yellow eye staring at us unblinking. If we were lucky, there would be pan de sal that you would have picked up yourself after your morning run. Salt and pepper on your egg, just salt on mine. You never had to ask. You knew how I liked mine.

You taught me to sop up the egg with my bread, wiping the plate clean.

We had little conversation in the mornings. Conversation was for after dinner. Mornings with you was quiet time. So I'm having one now. In the same front room, with the sunlight flooding in. I have coffee, my computer. Though I still do wish I had you. Here.

Happy Father's Day in heaven, Pa.