Chapter 45
“Morning, son. Merry Christmas.”
“Merry Christmas, Dad.” I knew he wanted to hug me, and I knew he wouldn’t.
“I’ll get the coffee started.”
“Okay. I’ll be right down.” That was the usual routine. He’d make the coffee, I’d make waffles or pancakes courtesy of Aunt Jemima or Bisquick, and after breakfast we’d go into the living room and open our presents.
The radio was on when I walked into the kitchen. The station Dad listened to had started playing holiday music at eight on Christmas Eve and would continue until the same time tomorrow night.
Right now, Jose Feliciano was singing “Feliz Navidad,” and Dad was humming along with him as the Mr. Coffee burbled and brewed a big pot of coffee.
Eggs were beside the bowl on the counter, and the waffle iron was plugged in and preheating. I reached for the first egg and cracked it.
“Dad?”
He looked up. “Yes.”