father-daughter

"I've only got a minute," says my retired father from the cellphone he uses so rarely I don't recognize the number.

I wonder, briefly and in passing, what's wrong: it's nearly the reaction inspired by a phone that rings too early or too late: "Who's in the hospital?" or, "Who died?" In a moment I am stepping into my shoes and pulling my coat, but only to meet him, as instructed, in the driveway. He doesn't negotiate the steps easily, and, as he said, he only has a minute.

As I walk out, I look to the passenger seat to confirm: he's solo. And already standing at the back of the Escape; he moves better when he's motivated.

And there it is: a duplicate of the aerobic step he'd purchased at some great discount for my mother.  "I thought it could help build up your leg."  I smile at the gesture without even trying to anticipate how or when that kind of activity will fit into my stress fracture rehab protocol. Sooner or later or never: whatever.  I'm not even faking it as I begin to express my appreciation for this unsolicited gizmo. He stops me with a raise of his hand:

He points out with ex-machinist precision the dimensions and height options. I can almost see his metal ruler; I certainly recognize the pause that precedes his inevitable, concluding warnings about the dire fates that could befall me were I to get carried away and trip over his gift. But darkness is falling and it's too cold for an extended debate on the likelihood of an ER visit.  "Okay," I concede; it's not as if grace is in the gene pool.

Mission accomplished, he's backing out almost before I've got the front door closed. I love you, too, Dad.