I step carefully off of the curb,
the white plastic bag is looped
over the handle of my crutch,
inside the bag are a couple of Little Debbie
nutty bars, a bottle of diet Sprite,
and a bottle of Pure Leaf, Southern Style
Sweet Tea.
Angela’s not with me.
I’m taking her a treat.  
She’s working
on campus.
Making my way back to my car,
I spot a maroon 1984 Datsun 510
at one of the pumps.
Immediately, I have to check it out;
we had one of those when I was a boy.
I freeze.
Hanging the nozzle back on the pump,
is my father,
he is wearing khakis, a red and blue striped
polo shirt, and tennis shoes. His hair is less gray
than it was when I saw him just yesterday, and what’s
up with those glasses?  The frames are really thick!
“Hey…Pops?” I say.
He looks up, his eyes wide, green
and full of life, confusion racing across his face.
“Jay?”
“Yeah.”
“How old are you?”
“I’m 40.”
“How old are you?”
“I’m 44.”
“Whoa.” we both say at the exact same time.
“What year is it?” he asks.
“2015.” I reply.
The 44 year old version of my father
and the 40 year old version of myself
stare at one another for another minute.
Finally, the silence breaks.
“You know, I have a wife and three kids.”
He only laughs that deep, hearty, infectious laugh
that has become an inherited trademark.
“And, your mom’s got beans, Spanish rice, and hamburger
patties working at home.
Last I heard, you were pretty excited about supper tonight.”
“I’m sure I am.  I started work on this thing early, no doubt.”
pointing to my gut.
It is painfully obvious that we are both afraid to touch one another.
No hug.
No handshake.
Nothing but a small wave
once he’s back in the car.
But, as he drives down Frederick Ave.,
toward the house,  
I see his window drop.
“I always knew!”
he yells.
“You still do!”
I yell back.
The Datsun warbles and shimmers
like water in the sun
then blips out of existence.
*
©2015 P&ZPublications;
-JBClaywell