The Hourglass

Three

It only takes about twenty minutes to get to my dad's house across town. I pull into the driveway of the house I grew up in. It was a single-story, 3-bedroom, 2-bathroom white house with black shutters. It wasn't anything fancy, but my parents always kept up on maintenance and cleaning, and it was nice. I was surprised my dad was able to stay here after what happened to Mom. But we remained in this house together, doing our best to make happy memories. 

I got out of my car and noticed the empty garden bed as I approached the front porch. That garden bed has been empty since mom died. Dad never really had a green thumb. Mowing was the extent of his landscaping capabilities. I approach the door. I don't have to knock, but I always feel like I should. 

Knock. Knock. 

"Come on in, Rosie," I hear my dad shout. I walk in the door and pause a moment as I take in the familiar surroundings. Beige carpet, white walls, a tan couch along the back wall with a TV and entertainment center on the opposite wall. I cross the living room and head towards the kitchen. There's a hallway to either side of the kitchen entryway. One hall leads to my Dad's bedroom and office, and the other hallway leads to my old bedroom. 

When I walk into the brightly lit kitchen, I take in the scene. Dad is at the stove making what smells like spaghetti and garlic bread. He's been cooking from scratch since I left home. He always cooked growing up, but he used boxed noodles and canned sauce like everyone else. It appears cooking is now his hobby in addition to golfing with his buddies. The smell of the freshly baked bread makes my mouth water. 

"Welcome home, Rosebud. I sure do miss seeing you every day," he says as he turns to smile at me. I can tell he's genuinely happy to see me, but I always note a hint of sadness, too. I know I look like my mother. Dad is of average height, with brown hair and brown eyes hidden behind thin-framed glasses. He's always been clean-shaven. He wears the same style every day except for Saturday and Sunday. Monday through Friday, Dad wears his old blue dad jeans with a solid-colored button-up shirt, short-sleeved only. On Saturday, he wears his golf shorts and sun hat with the same style button-up shirt.  Sunday is the only day Dad really dresses differently. He always wears a suit to church. 

"I miss seeing you every day, too, Dad," I say, smiling back at him. I take a seat at the table. "It smells amazing, Dad." Everything about this house is nearly the same as in my childhood. The wooden table is worn and scratched but clean. The linoleum is still a dull, yellow, square pattern, and the walls are still white with flowers, the same shade as the floor. The stove is the same gas-lit stove I burned my hand on when I was five. The only difference in here, now, is Dad had to upgrade the fridge and microwave last year when they finally gave out. The stove looks so out of place compared to the new fridge next to it. I know it will remain that way for as long as possible. 

Dad is practical. He doesn't remodel or change things just because. He only replaces things if they need to be fixed, but he repairs everything he can as many times as he can before replacing it. That's the way he was raised to do it. It was a little embarrassing when I was younger. All of my friends' moms kept their houses looking magazine-worthy. And while Dad and I always kept the house clean, it was outdated compared to the modern homes my friends lived in. 

Now that I'm older and on my own, I understand Dad's perspective. He really didn't see the need for me to move out. He had told me this house was clearly big enough for the both of us, and there was no reason for me to waste money on rent. I'm not the type to have my boyfriend stay the night, and Chelsea is like a second daughter to Dad, so I knew he was making valid points. But for some reason, I felt the need to be independent. And if I'm honest with myself, I've always been dying to leave this place behind after what happened to Mom. Dad was always the strong one. 

Dad finished cooking and brought our plates to the table. He set a plate of very delicious-looking spaghetti and meatballs in front of me with freshly baked garlic bread. I couldn't wait to dig in. He went back to the fridge to grab drinks. 

"Want a beer?" he asks with a childish grin on his face as he chuckles. Dad drinks a beer every night. He knows I hate the taste, but he always offers one anyway. For some reason, he thinks it's funny. 

I roll my eyes. "The day I say yes, you're going to have a heart attack," I joke back. He grabs me a water, my typical drink of choice, and joins me at the table. We say grace and begin to eat. The food melts in my mouth and is so good I can't help but groan out loud. 

"Dad." is all I say as I pretend to die over the deliciousness of his food. 

Dad chuckles. "I suppose I'm getting pretty good at it if I say so myself. So, tell me, how was work today? Do you still like what you're doing?" he asks, genuinely interested. 

"Work was just fine, and yes, I love what I do," I say, putting his mind at ease. 

"I'm happy for you, Rosie, really, but aren't you lonely working at home by yourself every day?" Curiosity is written all over his face like he truly doesn't understand me. Dad has always loved being able to chat with his work pals - the same pals he golfs with on the weekend. He's worked at the same company, with the same guys, for 30 years now. 

"Not at all. I love the peace and quiet. I love working at my own pace and managing my own schedule and workload. Besides, I can always make time for friends outside of work," I added the last bit for his benefit. 

"Alright. I trust you know what you're doing." He pauses, then asks, "You dating anybody these days?" He's a little shy as he asks the last part. I stifle a chuckle, not wanting to add to his embarrassment, or mine for that matter. 

"Absolutely, no one," I say happily. Dad looks concerned at that. 

"I suppose it would be difficult to meet anybody in person, but doesn't your generation do all that online nowadays?" he asks. 

"Most people, yes. I'm just not interested in looking right now." I say simply. 

"You'll find a decent guy, Rose. They aren't all dumb jocks like Brandon and Jeremy," he says, irritated at the memory of them. Dad was never a fan of either of them. He saw right through them the first time he met them. He couldn't believe I dated Brandon all throughout high school. I could tell he was relieved when we finally broke up. He always thought I could do better. He didn't show any interest in Jeremy, either. Really, I think he considered him a rebound and thought he would only be around for a couple of months. He was furious when I finally told him why we actually broke up. It was a good thing he was far out of range of Dad's shotguns by then. 

I laughed. "Dad, I know. I'll try and date someone who isn't a dumb jock next time, okay? But for now, I'm just enjoying being me. I'm a young adult. Aren't I supposed to find myself and all that crap?" I asked as I rolled my eyes and waved my fork in the air.

He chuckles. "Yes, and all that crap."  He hesitates, "It's just - you're Mom and I were getting married at your age, and you came along shortly after. I'm not saying you have to do what I did; I just want to see you happily settled down with a family of your own before I die. That's all." Translation: I don't want to die and leave you on this Earth alone, with no one to love you as much as I do. 

I swallow hard at the thought of my dad dying and being left with no one. I wasn't ready to think like that yet. Dad's only in his fifties; I still have time. I tried to reassure myself. Though, I suppose we all thought Mom would live longer, too...

"Don't worry about me, Dad. I know it's been a couple of years..." I sigh, "I'll consider going on a couple of dates this year and seeing how they go," I add reluctantly. 

He beams at that. "That's my Rosie." 

After dinner, I help Dad clean up, and he packs up the leftovers to take home like he always does. I hug him tight. "I love you, Dad. We'll talk again soon".