Yesterday at lunch, I read some more of Kaddish. The book doesn’t focus too heavily on the writer’s father — I mean, it’s not a Mitch Albom schmalzfest or anything — but it does get me thinking a lot about Dad and what went through during his heart surgery in spring 2005.
I gave my dad a call after lunch, and we shot the breeze for a little while. He filled me in on the Premiership soccer package he gets on satellite, his cardiologist’s advice that he get a defibrillator installed, and how he’s getting his gutters cleaned for $70.
I let him know about some of the goings-on at home. One piece of news that he didn’t know about was that Amy bought a new car. Dad lent us his 1993 Cherokee last spring; Amy drives it down to the bus stop and back each day, a 2-mile round trip and, while it’s not quite on its last legs, it is getting pretty old.
“Now that she’s saved up,” I told Dad, “she’s getting a Mini Cooper S.”
“That’s great!” he said. “How much did you get for the Cherokee?”
“What? The Cherokee? . . . Pop, we didn’t sell your car.”
And that’s when it struck me: my brother & I are going to have a tough time keeping a straight face reading that mourner’s kaddish someday.