“The chicken might be too spicy for you, Dad.”
“You think so?”
“Yea, it says Cajun.”
“I’ll just scrape off the sauce.”
I shake my head.
“What do you think Mom’s having?” He carefully places the menu on the table.
“Some disgusting gruel I suppose.”
He chuckles. “Hospital food all looks the same. Grey.”
It’s been years since my Dad and I ate at a restaurant alone.
“Remember we used to go Christmas shopping, Dad? Mom would take Teresa and you’d take me?”
“Gosh haven’t thought about that in years.”
“I’d have my Christmas list and we’d go to Eatons so we could talk to the elevator operator.”
He takes off his glasses. “It was nice having someone tell you what floor to get off.”
I remember her crisp white gloves and the clank of the elevator’s cage door closing.
“Then we’d eat at the Chicken Roost. Their sauce was so good eh, Dad?”
“Too bad they’re gone.”
“Remember those juke boxes on the walls in the booths?”
He pauses. “You kids had to read every song title.”
“That’s because they were so funny.”
Our dinners arrive.
“Chicken’s too spicy,” he complains.
I study my Dad as he scrapes the orange coloured spice off his chicken breast. Don’t ever change, Dad, I think to myself. I feel like time is nipping at our heels. Relentless.
“Here, did you want some of mine?” I’d ordered the salmon.
“No, no…you go ahead.”
“I love you, Dad.”
“I love you too,” he smiles. “Wouldn’t find chicken like this at the Chicken Roost.”

Happy Father’s Day, Dad.  You’re the best!

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