My daughters move between big cities effortlessly. DC, NY, Chicago, Boston – that's all part of the everyday for them. Me, I move between campus and condo, shop and condo, Ed's farmette – if the weather is nice.
I can’t say that the weather is nice, but in the predawn hour, after dropping daughter at airport, I swing by the farmette.
It seems wintry by his shed.
I offer to help evaluate his preparedness. He has to be ready for a court appearance in New York next week. New York – I say. Have you forgotten? Suit and tie, buddy.
It shouldn’t matter what I wear… He turns, wanting me to agree that it doesn’t matter. I say to him – oh, but I think it very much does matter.
He puts on the suit that he bought for a funeral eight years ago. It’s too everything: baggy pants, limp jacket covering a tight shirt. I stifle a smile. It’s okay, it will do. You’re okay. I’m talking to the man who would prefer to dig out boulders on the Ice Age Trail than set foot in New York again.
We go to his favorite cheap haircut place. I know I should tell the cutter – make him look less wild. But I don’t. I feel we have compromised enough on the clothes.
Late. Classes are done. The clouds roll in. Surely it is a winter sky. No? Not there yet? Are we merely getting ready? I'm fine with that.
