Dad

…orders one of us to retrieve a bottle of Primo beer from the ‘fridge. The

routine has made small hands practiced with manipulating a bottle opener. He sits

cross-legged on the hardwood floor, two feet from the television of our two-bedroom

rental, the Hawaii Hochi paper spread to receive the discarded shells and skins of

roasted peanuts. Attentively we watch; his glare fixed on the six o’clock news,

the swig of Primo beer alternating with the methodical work of his jaw on roasted

peanuts, draining two bottles. For us kids, Father’s Day fell every weeknight at

six o’ clock.