In the Kitchen

Yesterday I helped my father with some things around his apartment. He is 87 and still lives on his own, but is not very sure on his feet. His hands, also, have been giving him trouble for awhile--they are puffy and numb, and he has difficulty with many simple tasks. While I was there, he asked me to open a couple of cans of vegetables--using the can opener is tricky for him--and put them in plastic containers in the refrigerator. In the refrigerator, I spotted a cucumber that looked pretty rotten. "Here," I said, "I'm going to throw this away." My father agreed. Then he said, "And look, next to it, there's a potato." I picked up the potato and held it up. It was a little withered. My father said, "Yeah, throw that away, too." Then, with an ironic tone, he said, rolling his eyes ever so slightly, "It's . . .[long pause]. . . seen better days."

My father has an expressive way of talking, and a penchant for drama, and I enjoyed his somewhat comic assessment of the poor potato. But I knew he was referring to himself, also.