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As It Should Be

David Sapp

    When I was seven, I began and ended days with my father – perfect days when I still idolized him. On most mornings we climbed into the Jet Quality Cleaners van and claimed a booth downtown at the Ohio Restaurant. Tinny pop songs played on the radio. Gus, the Greek proprietor, always glad to see us, chatted amiably and aimlessly. All the waitresses who, like the nurses at Mercy Hospital, wore uniforms back then, were in love with Dad and so naturally doted on the son. Chocolate milk and a chocolate cream-filled doughnut for me; bacon, eggs-over-easy, hash browns, toast, and coffee for him. Eventually, reluctantly, we met the inconsequential middle of days, classrooms and playgrounds, employees and customers – routines we performed to appear busy.
    At day’s end, I asked why it got dark so early. Dad switched off the neon sign, the jet asleep for the night. In my eyes he was an eminent and powerful man when he bolted and rattled doors and turned his keys. After supper, just before bedtime, it was reading with phonics flashcards, Cat-In-The-Hat and Sam-I-Am. There was only Dad and I and the magical sounds and iconography of words on a page. Inevitably, but as it should be, the more I read, the less I needed him. I often wonder when words began to take hold, at what moment I became something separate from my father. Somehow, miraculously, I forged my own way to keys and breakfasts in booths and storytime with my son. I rattled doors. And over time he drifted away becoming distinct from me – as it should be.

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