“Uncle David?” He walked toward his truck, saying, “That’s right. I… I should be back around noon.”
“But Dad, why today? It’s Sunday.” “I know, sweetheart, but it’s a special Sunday.”
I turned off the spigot. “Why’s that?” “It’s his fortieth birthday. I want to see him and deliver a gift,” he said as he held up the paper bag.
“Don’t worry. I’ll rustle us up some pancakes for lunch, all right?”
“I’m coming with you,” I said, and tossed the hose aside.
I wasn’t even really dressed—I’d just pulled on some sweats and sneakers, no socks—but in my mind there was no doubt.
I was going. “Why don’t you stay home and enjoy the morning with your mother? I’m sure she would—”
I went over to the passenger side of his truck and said, “I’m coming,” then climbed inside and slammed the door back in place.
“But—” he said through the driver’s door. “I’m coming, Dad.”
He studied me a moment, then said, “Okay,” and put the bag on the bench seat. “Let me leave a note for your mother.”
While he was inside, I strapped on the lap belt and told myself that this was good.
This was something I should’ve done years ago. Uncle David was part of the family, part of my father, part of me.
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