Road TRIp

Visiting Dad at the beach. Eighty-nine. He makes the coffee. Strong. We talk horses. Kelso to Mod Man. Jockeys, too. Chris McCarron to Fishback, maybe the two best he’s ever seen. That could change.

We prepare for Dad’s fox. A left-over turkey sandwich and a hot dog in a metal bowl from an automatic waterer from some long-shuddered barn. I wait on the steps for her. Not long, you can set your clock to her. She sidles out of the cattails, across the road, up the steps and picks the sandwich, turns, nibbles on it and then trots away with it in her jaws. A few hours later, the hot dog is gone, too. We figure it’s her, or a family member.

South African racing blares from TVG. Off to yoga with Sheila in a bit. She says we have to get there early. And we’ll be the youngest ones there. By decades. Then back on the road with Dad, ticking off the boxes on an ever-growing list of doctor’s appointments. Today it’s the audiologist. Perhaps, the TVG volume will be a little lower tomorrow.

“Here you are.”

Coffee’s ready.