ODE TO DAD

My dad, my sister Paula and I were sitting in easy chairs watching Notre Dame. Dad and I were attired in boxers and T-shirts. On the West Coast the Irish with their East Coast kickoff times start in Sacramento at ten.

It was halftime and I went to the kitchen to prepare a sandwich--four slices of ham, two squares of manchego cheese, lettuce, tomato, slices of red onion and extra mayonnaise. I included a dill pickle and chips on the side. I cut the sandwich into two triangles.

"What do you have there?" asked Dad when I returned to the frontroom.

"A ham and cheese sandwich. Do you want half?"

"I'm not that hungry, but I'll take a bite."

He stood there munching on the sandwich and his face beamed with pleasure.

"This is damn good."

"Here! Take the whole sandwich. I can fix another one."

He took the sandwich and settled down for the second half.

"When are the boys coming home?" inquired Paula.

"Later this afternoon," I replied. My two younger brothers had gone to San Francisco the previous night to attend a concert.

I could hear my father chomping on the dill.

"Hasn't anyone ever taught you how to eat a pickle, Dad?" I chided him sarcastically.

I awoke. I had been dreaming. It has been a while since my father had visited me. Dad has been dead six years.