For your reading pleasure
I've been carrying this story around for some time. It was time to flesh out.
Like Father, Like Son
I’m sneaking sips of bourbon, disguised in a plastic convenience store cup filled with Diet Coke, when my father shuffles into the family room.
I’m caught between feeling like the little boy who has been caught doing something illicit and adult-defiant and doing whatever my 56-year-old self wants. And right now, I want the hurt to stop, so the Bourbon Big Gulp, tipped back in dad’s coffee-colored leather La-Z-Boy.
“I’ve got something for you,” he says, guiding the tennis-ball-covered walker tentatively across the ancient orange shag in the family room.
Out of his pocket comes a black ring box, trimmed in gold.
“Dad.”
“I want to give this to you now, not after I’m dead.”
I hold out a hand, tentative. He puts it on my palm, like a proposition.
“You know what that is, don’t you?”
I open the box. It’s his diamond ring, a full carat, set in a simple gold setting.
“Dad, I…”
“That’s the ring I bought myself when I quit drinking. I want you to take care of it. No arguments.”
He turns the walker, trundles toward the kitchen.
I slip the ring onto a finger. It’s too small to fit anything but my pinkie.
I take a sip of my drink, exhale with a cough, the bitter taste covers my lips.
My mouth tastes exactly like defeat.
I burst into uncontrolled sobs, tears like raindrops.
Like Father, Like Son
I’m sneaking sips of bourbon, disguised in a plastic convenience store cup filled with Diet Coke, when my father shuffles into the family room.
I’m caught between feeling like the little boy who has been caught doing something illicit and adult-defiant and doing whatever my 56-year-old self wants. And right now, I want the hurt to stop, so the Bourbon Big Gulp, tipped back in dad’s coffee-colored leather La-Z-Boy.
“I’ve got something for you,” he says, guiding the tennis-ball-covered walker tentatively across the ancient orange shag in the family room.
Out of his pocket comes a black ring box, trimmed in gold.
“Dad.”
“I want to give this to you now, not after I’m dead.”
I hold out a hand, tentative. He puts it on my palm, like a proposition.
“You know what that is, don’t you?”
I open the box. It’s his diamond ring, a full carat, set in a simple gold setting.
“Dad, I…”
“That’s the ring I bought myself when I quit drinking. I want you to take care of it. No arguments.”
He turns the walker, trundles toward the kitchen.
I slip the ring onto a finger. It’s too small to fit anything but my pinkie.
I take a sip of my drink, exhale with a cough, the bitter taste covers my lips.
My mouth tastes exactly like defeat.
I burst into uncontrolled sobs, tears like raindrops.
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