Papa

Usually, my Fridays begin at 5:15 am. It's usually dark, the wood floor of my room is cold, and I'm the only one awake. Makeup, hair, lunch packing, and coffee making takes me to 6:20 (or today, 6:15), and then I'm in the car with my dad. We listen to the radio; even though I know he doesn't like my favorite morning program. But, he never makes any attempt to change the station, nor has he ever complained.

I'm learning a lot about my dad. I appreciate him more than I used to. I know I'm starting to see a different side of him than I knew a year ago. Maybe it has something to do with God opening my eyes to others and their sufferings, but maybe it doesn't. Maybe my heart hasn't changed at all. Even so, I'm now aware of all that he does for my family, but doesn't get acknowledged for. All the work he puts into taking care of my mother, my siblings, and I. House payments, groceries, medical bills. He's stressed all the time, but I've only heard from my mom and not his own mouth. I'll ask, but he'll water it all down so I won't have to worry. Then he'll ask me what I'm doing in my classes, and the subject is too quickly forgotten.

We get out of the car, now in the parking lot of my high school. He carries my book bin into the school, even though he has a bad back, without complaint. He knows I have the same condition - inherited from him. He hugs me and kisses my cheek, saying he hopes I have a good day at school and that he loves me. I do the same.