I Think He Might Have Had Ties to the Mob, Once

Today I had lunch at a decent but overpriced Italian joint in the suburbs of New Jersey with my father, his overloud girlfriend and her large-sized relatives. (One wore suspenders beneath his baldpate; another was glittering in gold.)

I met a couple of them first by the bathroom. When I returned to the long table, my father told me they had remarked to him that he has a very charming daughter. I said under my breath to him, “That’s because they don’t know me yet.”

And then we laughed and laughed, me and my dad. Because my father is that father. The guy who cuts corners on his taxes and made everything happen for me somehow, some way, the one who developed a temper he never really lost, even while remaining a gentle person. His sense of humor is bawdy and unruly and he has passed it down to me, I realized as I said: “They don’t know me yet.”

For this, I am deeply, deeply grateful, if forever confused by what it all means. I can laugh at myself because of his love. I can laugh with him, because I love him.

Happy Father’s Day.