I turned north to the neighborhood where my parents lived and soon was driving down a street I knew very well. Three bedroom brick homes that are the signature home of many middle class families are the standard of the neighborhood. As I pulled into the driveway, I noted that not much had changed since I was last here a year ago. Lack of change is good sometimes.
I climbed out of the truck and stretched my cramped muscles as I walked to the door. It was unlocked as always, and I let myself in and walked towards the kitchen where I could hear someone humming a song. It was my mother, busily working at the counter, apparently fixing dinner.
“Hello mother.”
She turned, and with a smile that lit up the room came towards me, hers arms outstretched. We hugged and laughed and smiled at each other the way family does when they have been separated for some time.
“Roger,” she called, “our son is here.”
I heard my father’s voice from one of the bedrooms, “ok, I’ll be right there.”
I put my arm around my mother’s shoulders and she slid her arm around my waist and we walked into the living room. She laid her head against me as we walked. She was clearly glad to see me. My father emerged from the hall way and I was somewhat shocked at his appearance. At sixty seven he was beginning to show his age. His hair was mostly grey and he walked with a slight shuffle. He had never been athletic, but now he just looked old.
“Good to see you,” he said, “and thanks for doing this.”
“No problem, it gives me a chance for a break from my normal routine,” I answered. “Any excuse for a road trip is welcome.”
My mother turned to return to the kitchen and over her shoulder said,”you two catch up while I finish dinner.” With that she left us alone.
There was not much to say. My father and I have virtually nothing in common, but he is still my father. We talked a little, mostly about nothing until dinner was ready when we went into the dining room where mother was finishing setting the table. Nothing fancy, there were baked potatoes, salad and a filet for each of us. A bottle of red wine sat on the table. It was pleasant and unhurried, and we ate and chatted about small things, the news, the weather, but nothing significant. After dinner, my mother and I cleared the table and loaded the dishwasher while my father sat in the living room and watched the news channel on cable. Around nine, my father excused himself and headed for bed. “Got work to do tomorrow,” he explained. I noticed he went into the room that had always been his office but doubled as a guest room, rather than the master bedroom. I looked at my mother and raised my eyebrows in an unspoken question.
“He had prostate cancer over two years ago, and surgery was necessary. When he came home he was a restless sleeper so he moved into his office room so he wouldn’t bother me, and has slept there ever since.” She looked away. “It has not been easy.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.” I didn’t know what else to say so I added, “it’s 850 miles to Denver where I thought we might stay tomorrow, so we need an early start. Let’s get to bed, ok?”