Paris cafe

Waiting is a pastime when it comes to my father. It has always been this way. His human clock is wound with fumbling hands. It is both unnerving and wonderful.

Each Saturday for the past six years, my father and I have had a cafe date on Rue Montorgueil. Like many pleasurable things, it has become a willful routine. Lately, I’ve asked him if he needs a ride. Walking is now hard labor for him; his knees are a tumble of mischievous bones. He always waives off my offer. “Like the rest of me, there is no warranty,” he says, laughing. “But walking is what I’ve always done.”

My father’s habitual tardiness and damaged body have made my pastime all the more acute. And I worry some days that I won’t see him rounding the corner, fresh daisies in hand for me. I sit by the window and stare at the intersection, thinking about the Saturday he won’t arrive.

Photo: Chris JL

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s