It is just he and I for the eve: his brother at a sleepover, sister and mom at volleyball in the city. We make a special time of it. We go somewhere for dinner to watch football while we eat. Our (my) first choice was closed, so we go where he asks and chooses, Pizza Hut, and we have the entire place to ourselves. We sit at a high top table. We color and play a table game. TV is background and secondary.
We order too much and eat the same, and I thank him again and again for taking me to dinner, for our fun time and wanting to go with me.
He thanks me for the same.
Back to the house, I want to watch football. He wants to watch a cartoon downstairs. He sets me up in our Lazy Boy. He covers me in three blankets making and point to cover me just right—he’s done this for me for as long as I can remember and, though I wish it far away, have visions of me still caring this way for me when I’m at my last.
He turns out the lights—in room, in kitchen, and the hall—knowing well how I fall to sleep fast after large, good meals. Downstairs, he is purposefully quiet.
I am blessed to be his Dad. It’s been a beautiful live of time.