Like Father Part Three

He's wearing a stained red sweatshirt, a trench coat and a black Indiana Jones hat. In the diner's morning light, I can see that he was handsome once and, in some ways, is still. His features are shaded by age and a life disconnected.

No matter what, he always says yes when I ask him to have breakfast with me. There is always time but I make none for him. Looking at him, I feel touched and like something is stuck in my throat. I can't find the words to explain why.

"Where'd you learn to write?" he asks me.

"You."

"I'm taking no credit for it."

"Of course I learned from you."

"I suppose I was always careful in how I spoke. I never felt successful, though."

"You didn't?"

"Not at anything."

"Really?"

"You're the same. Do you feel successful?"

"No. Never. I hope one day."

"You probably won't. I never did. Well, I had a few moments, at the Gazette and later at The Star, but they were fleeting. A ballplayer told me once, never think you have it made. He was right, you never do. Nothing is ever made."

I watch him eat his pancakes. He's too old for that much syrup.

"I was like your brother though, I was basically unemployable until I was twenty-one. Never tell him that."

"Why'd you always get fired?"

"I would oversell myself."

"You did?"

"Yeah, and being a drunk. But the gap between what I said and what I could do eventually narrowed."

"Dad, I feel really confused."

"About what?"

"Life. I'm losing people all over the place."

"Yep, you are. That's growing up, kid."

After we get the cheque he walks home too slowly, always five paces behind me. When I close the door, I watch him go where he lives now.

He's lost to me, too.