My Father the Napkin

Every time my father and I were together we’d notice how similar we were to each other.

DNA yes, but it was more than that. I am him and he was me. Our quirks, our mannerisms, our love of being so jolly that you could not be mean in return. The simple act of having that much joy thrust in your face made even the grinchiest of humans break down their walls.

We would often go for breakfast. Usually, the same place. Sammy’s as we called it. A diner that had changed hands multiple times but always remained “Sammy’s” to us. Same wait staff.

Same seating. Same customers.

We talked about everything and nothing. Just enjoying each other’s company and having a laugh.

Like clockwork after our orders had been placed, the waitress would bring us a pile of napkins.

“Here you go, just in case”. Fully knowing who she was dealing with.

Napkins. Plural.

As the food arrived we’d each ceremoniously grab our napkin. One each.

We never touched the rest. That beautiful white napkin iceberg sat on the edge of the table for the whole meal while we each ravaged our single napkins.

Rubbed raw from our hands trying to get the grease off. Refusing to get a new, clean version.

“Waste not, want not”. Like clockwork he’d say this to me.

I’d laugh. As though our time together wouldn’t be satisfactory if he didn’t say the same thing each time.

He’d remind me that when he grew up he was allowed to use his one napkin for the entire day.

“You don’t just throw them away because they’re dirty. They’re still useful holes and all.”

Wrinkled, greasy, holy, not pretty but still functional.

The same could be said for him. For all of us. Aged, wrinkled and a little less pristine. Still useful, however. And still loved.

My father, the napkin.