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Dinner is Ruined By Cancer
October, 2012
Dad was reclining in his favorite blue chair, staring at the flat screen television, absorbing the national news of the day. He was seventy years old then, balding and paunchy, and in his ninth year of retirement from the airline company.
Dad had suffered some serious health scares recently. It was one crisis after another, and then another one after that. The most recent scare took place a month prior, requiring that he spend an entire night in the hospital. Age was catching up to him despite all that he’d done to preserve himself — he’d lived a very clean life. The sharpness of his youth, once embodied by his chin and cheekbones had been dulled away by time. Still, he remained secure in his position as the unquestioned leader of the household.
Mom, who was about to enter her sixth decade of life, was in the kitchen putting the last touches on the preparation of my absolute favorite meal — fried plantains, spiced vegetables, and chicken — when remembrance illuminated her eyes. She scurried off in the direction of the stairs. As she disappeared behind the wall, I sighed. Right then I held the same opinion as my father would so often espouse: mom shouldn’t busy herself with trying to complete a multitude of chores at the same time, especially when my stomach was rumbling from hunger.
