A (pointless, as are most) conversation I was having with my FIL reminded me of something I hadn’t thought of in a long time.
Jiji was going on and on about how far he walks in the mornings blah blah blah. The poor guy was begging for praise actually, when I had a kind of flashback to the winter when I was 17.
My Dad got up with me before dawn every weekday for the entire winter. We jogged around the neighborhood, our breath frosty and white, hanging in the air effervescent for an instant, then dispursing from the smallness of our bodies into the great, wide world beyond.
We never said much on those runs. I guess a lot goes unsaid when you’re 17. But the coffee Dad made when we got back, that we drank together in friendly silence? Best I ever tasted.
Sometimes it isn’t what gets said that’s important. Just being there and making the effort was plenty. I don’t think I ever once said “thank you”either, though I cringe at that realization today.