Wednesday, October 8, 2003

This evening, I’d like to see my father happily come home, pull two beers from the fridge — one for him, and one for my mother — and sit at the kitchen table. As he takes his first sips, I’d like to see his left arm wrapped around my mother’s waist, and hear him say, “Vengache mi golda” (c’mere, chubby). I’d love to see my mother joining in the celebration, enjoying her Corona as she prepares our meal. Suddenly, after a moment of silence, I’d love to hear my father burst in laughter for no apparent reason at all, as he tends to do when he’s happy.

You see, my father is taking an exam today. One that he has struggled with before. The last time he took it, he was one percentage point away from passing it. This time he’s more prepared. He now knows what it’s like to welcome the sun’s first rays of the day with a book in front of him.

However, if it’s not in my father’s life’s plan to have the 8th of October become the day that he becomes a California licensed contractor, I know my mother will be at home to tell him, “‘pa que te preocupas, viejo? Echate otra.” as she serves him another cold beer — “Why sweat it, hubby? Have another one.”

Good luck to him.

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