The house is melancholy, silent, dark and heavy. My father lights up the kitchen and in an interlude between night and dawn, begins his day. While the rest of us carry on the ritual of sleep and dreams, father leaves, locking the door behind him.
But it is the interlude that matters:
The smell of toasted bread penetrates the hall as my father prepares his morning meal. It is six a.m. and my father is eating a delicate, timely breakfast. His work attire is arranged, almost too fittingly on the couch, ironed, with not a single wrinkle or stain.
He has arranged the table neatly; it is safe to assume that his habits fall under those of a perfectionist’s. Above all, he is strictly conventional; with every breakfast, there is first a glass of hot milk, served with wheat toast, jam, honey, and cheese, followed by a hot cup of tea.
Growing up, I have always awaited my father’s return, awaited his calls, his voice, his smile, his turning of the keys in the lock. I have gotten used to his place, his state, his ideal morning and lunch meals, his habits. I have learned that he does not demand, nor does he have many wishes. His wishes are not grand, but the happiness of his children, a life of sweets and trips to Europe, gatherings and celebrations. I have learned that behind his content eyes, there are many stories that have not yet been told, that if you sit by him, he will recount some of them.
It is the interlude, the middle of beginnings and endings, the pauses and breaks that matter. It is within these precious moments that little things happen and make you aware. In the sweet escape of night, the interlude, my father finds his contentment.