I have the blinds down in my knotty pine room. It faces west. At noon the sun starts to come in and will heat and bleach anything it touches.
Im feeling full. I had an Impossible Burger today at the Burger King across the street from the VA clinic where my dad went to get a blood test and get his 2nd Cover-19 vaccine. We were told to watch for soreness on his left arm. He was fine 45 minutes later as he slowly ate the massive Whopper with no onions that he held, wrapped in paper, in his left hand.
I timed how long he held his sandwich. 32 minutes. I was finished mine, “impossibly”, of course he said, in 13. He took nearly three times longer. He is like a Zen eating meditation rock-star. He thoughtfully considers each bite. He expresses thanks for all of the aspects of it – the seeded bun, the unseasonably ripe tomatoes, the pickles with just the right amount of tang, and the lettuce, the sauce, even the flame-broiled “Patty” he calls it. He thoroughly chews each bite of food. He thoughtfully pulls back the paper, the holder-of-all-the-burger-goodness that I have origamically-folded into a WhopperHouse out of the wrapper.
We have taken the burger bag to the end of town, to the park that overlooks the end of the Sacramento River flowing into the Bay. We are sitting in the sun, with the windows and sunroof cracked letting in the bright spring-in-winter day. In between bites, he stares out the window. He makes yummy noises. He pauses to wipe his fingers on one of the “extra napkins” he barked over me, across me, into the open window and the speaker-microphone in the drive through. One of those napkins is now tucked into his shirt covering it, in case something drops out of his burger. And it does. A piece of lettuce covered in mayonnaise jumps out, then a tomato slides sideways, escaping the bun. The napkin saves the day.
It is a perfect day with my father. My father saves my day.