You handed Dad his birthday card in exchange for food -- Chili's take out. Dad opened the card and burst out laughing. "Turkeyman, it's the same card again."
"Are you serious?" You said poker face. I'm pretty sure you didn't mean to get him the same card again, but you never told me for sure.
"Yep." Dad said as I rushed to wipe off the kitchen table. When I dropped some crumbs on the floor, Dad shook his head and said, "Nance, you can sure tell you learned to clean from McDonald's."
"You're really milking the chemo thing." I teased as I grabbed silverware from the drawer.
"You really want me to have that birthday card, don't you?" Dad said as he piled baby back ribs on to his plate.
"What can I say?" You grinned and piled food on your plate like Dad.
You and Dad went on and on about the ribs and comparing them to Pigs-R-Us and Dave's BBQ. I was perched at my normal vantage point - the chair with the back to the patio door. You sat across from me, kitty - corner from Dad.
You had your Dad's eyes and nose and hairline and the gift to gab like Cliff from Cheers. (I know I'm dating myself with that one - but oh well.) But, you had my quest for soul searching, making up goofy dances, and bathroom humor. I thought of our library of Fart books down in the basement and smiled -- my nasty, dirty smile.
"What?" You and Dad asked in unison.
I bobbed my head the way you taught me and gave my boys two thumbs up and said. "Good times."
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