Page 8 of The Parkers' Handsome Holiday
My father nodded. “Exactly like fish. And sharks.”
Asher had recently become fascinated with every living creature on the planet. It was rare to last five minutes in the room with him without him picking your brain about some animal or another. He was full of random facts. Where he got some of them, I had no idea, and he had recently taken it upon himself to try to educate my father and me on all varieties of wildlife. Today, it would seem, was a day about whales.
“Go get ready for school, Ash,” I said, nodding up the stairs.
Asher didn’t need to be asked twice. He shot up the stairs and raced into his room, where we could hear him rummaging through his drawers to pick out his clothes.
My father chuckled. “He runs as heavily as you did when you were young. You couldn’t sneak up on anyone.”
I smiled. “So you’ve told me.”
“I’m getting forgetful, apparently.”
“I think the word you’re looking for is senile, Dad.”
My father threw his head back and laughed. I found myself staring at the gray whiskers on his jaw that used to be jet black. When he pulled himself back together, he gripped my shoulder. “It’s a good thing you’ll be here to take care of me when I’m in diapers and can’t feed myself.”
“Not funny.”
He grinned. “It’s a little funny.”
I chuckled and shook my head. This was not the first time we’d had this conversation. I teased him about his age all the time, and he liked to flip it on its head and remind me that he would become my responsibility.
I had no issues with that.
“There’s fresh coffee in the pot, Dad. Help yourself. And Asher’s cereal is on the counter. He may not want it. He’s been eating toast with strawberry jam lately.”
“Weird kid.”
“He’s our blood,” I said. “He’s bound to be a little weird.”
My father nodded. “Absolutely true.”
Asher came back down the stairs so fast, it was almost like he was sliding down them. His socked feet slid across the hardwood when he hit the main floor, and he scampered into the kitchen on mine and my father’s heels as I poured myself a second cup of coffee in a travel mug. My father fixed himself a cup as Asher opened the fridge, grabbed the orange juice, and poured it into one of his glasses that I stored in a lower cupboard so he could reach it. He sipped it and flinched.
“Why is orange juice so bad after toothpaste?” Asher grimaced.
I laughed as I ruffled his hair and passed him on my way out of the kitchen. “Mint and citrus don’t mix well, kiddo.”
Asher licked his lips to try to get rid of the taste.
“You have to drink more if you want it to go away,” I said.
Asher drank more. He struggled until the sweet citrus chased away the lingering toothpaste on his tongue, and then he nodded approvingly. “Better. Thanks, Dad.”
“You’re welcome. Now, I have to get out of here. I’m running behind. You be good to Grandpa, okay? Don’t give him a hard time.”
“He never does,” my father said as he leaned on the kitchen counter.
Asher beamed up at me. “I’ll be good.”
I crouched down and balanced on the balls of my feet to hug my son. I gave him a good squeeze as his little hands held the back of my neck. “Love you, kiddo.”
“Love you too, Dad.”
I stood up, and Asher bolted back into the kitchen. My father nodded at me, his way of saying goodbye, and followed his grandson into the kitchen. Their voices followed me down the hall to the front door as my father began the process of deciding what to eat: toast or cereal.
I grabbed my jacket from its home on the hook by the door and slipped my arm through. As I fixed my collar, my eyes drifted to the same place they did every morning. The table with the key bowl and a picture frame of my family.
