Dad

My dad is in town for a few days. He came to New York for a boring two-day business seminar and is staying on for the weekend just because it meant free airfare to come hang out with me. Aside from bringing me a suitcase full of CDs and iron-on letters and my skillet, his office put him up in a swank hotel with two queen-size beds and a giant bathtub, which means I get two whole nights’ worth of sleep on a bed that doesn’t deflate. He goes to bed early, so I spent most of last night reading in the bath, and then wrapped in a towel, reading on the marble bathroom floor. I was in heaven.

My dad is one of my very favorite people on the planet. He is quite possibly the tallest, nicest man who ever lived, and if you met him and told me you didn’t like him, I’d call you a filthy liar. He runs marathons and rides rollercoasters on his birthday and washes his car every Saturday, and gives sound financial advice and is an excellent dancer and is totally in love with my mom, and always has a peppermint in his coat pocket when you need one. He once a lost a tooth during a bar fight in Japan while he was in the Navy, but he doesn’t like telling that story. When I lived in Tulsa, my dad and I had lunch together every single Wednesday because that was taco salad day at the Presbyterian Church downtown, and we went running together by the river three times a week. When I finished my first mile, my dad sang the Rocky theme. Last night before he fell asleep he told me a joke about Abraham Lincoln, and when I woke up this morning as he was heading out the door for his meeting, he tossed me an orange and a newspaper. I’ve missed my dad.