Yesterday, I left Denver, entrusting my father to the care of baristas:
the pretty, wide-eyed, brown-haired girl whose father called her Gertrude, his humor apparently garnering equal eye-rolls--or, in her case, sass.
the blonde one-- "daughters stick together," she laughs to him as she swipes my drink on his card, too.
the sleepless lawyer who sings Korean hymns on Sundays and pots his piano with bud vases.
the seminary student reading Frankenstein in his off time.
the smiley one with shiny eyes and dimple, who tells my father to turn right back around when he comes in.
the hey yous, the "guy"s and the "lady"s.
He will show up before you even open--that customer who means you wake up at 4am.
He will tease you and shower you with puns.
He will grin like he hasn't seen you since last Thanksgiving and this year you brought pie!
He probably won't remember your name--but he'll tell me about you. Your aspirations. Your family.
His name is David.
He's my dad.
Take good care of him.