Devotion

For my Daddio…
Sauntering from the entryway, across the khaki-speckled carpet and up the two walnut stained wooden steps from living to dining room, his steps are purposed. The telltale sign of his ‘summer tan’ on the honey brown skin of his muscled legs—markings that reveal his line of outdoor work.
He works five days a week outside—the sunshine beating down upon his sixty year old body in all the uncovered places. In summertime we smile when seeing him out of his work boots, walking barefoot through the kitchen or on the sandy beach of the Lake Michigan shoreline in his swim trunks. Out of his normal disguise, we see lighter spaces of skin—from mid calf to toe tip and mid thigh to hipbone. They beam from their usual hiding spots (behind Gore-tex® work boot and ruddy-brown or olive green cargo shorts).
As is his ritual, he lets out a soft, sweet, ‘hey babe,’ hoping to find her somewhere nearby. Looking to extend another dose of love—a squeeze of shoulder or tush, a rub of ribcage—the warm habit of this man among women. Plodding one foot in front of the other he drops off his aging lunch cooler empties two drops of black coffee from the metal-green thermos—the age of which dates back to even before 1986 I believe. It was in his pickup truck and therefore survived the blazing house fire.
Placing small reused plastic Baggies of leftover carrots and crackers on the countertop near the pantry, another of his daily routines is complete. As he steps across the hardwood floor she slips from around the corner and the calloused palm of his right hand outstretches to reach for her.
If I were a scientist I might outfit him with a probe and measure the heart-swell possessed of his own accord. It would certainly chart top—the Richter scale having no experience with his level of devotion.