Daddy

He was a tow-head blond, probably 4 years old and he had his whole body wrapped around his father's leg and they walked in unison towards the altar. He was pulling hard and the strain on the belt was evident as it tried to hold up the gray pinstripe suit pants. The child mostly understood what the sacrament meant and it only meant it because he was there with his father.

She had red hair and a pink striped shirt. She was peering back into the kitchen waiting patiently, as patiently as kids can wait, for her tacos. He was waiting with her, his hair a little longer than hers, and a little grayer too. He placed his hand on her head and his nails were full of dirt. Grease dirt. Hard work dirt. She accidently kicked another patron and he made her apologize and then he kissed her forehead. The grease dirt covered his clothing. She said he hurt her ear and he said, "It's alright, you've got another one."

I passed them on the sidewalk. He said to me in his raspy voice, "We're going to see Star Wars tonight!!" He could not figure out what his favorite part was after; it was just that great. "This is a very big night," his father said to me. "My dad took me to see Star Wars when I was in second grade." And they were suddenly no more than people, walking, breathing, excited. And you would never know that the walking and the breathing were once impossible for the young jedi or that he'd be starting three weeks of surgery in just eight days.