My eyes made their way over the display. We were in a high-end bakery that had a mouth-watering gourmet donut selection and I was a bit indecisive. I knew it wasn't a healthy choice, but the delight I received from indulging was heavily influenced by memory. When I was a kid, he'd take me to Robin's after ice-skating and tobogganing. It was a weekly ritual I always looked forward to. Now here we were: older, our bond (and craving for fried dough) still unbreakable. He leaned on his cane and let me order for him.
"We'll take one maple dip and one chocolate dip," I said, listing our favorites from back-in-the-day. "and two London Fogs, please." He had never tried one before. I hoped he enjoyed the latté as much as I did. It was part of my adult evening ritual.
As the donuts were placed in a small box, I turned to him and asked where he wanted to go. He looked me in the eye and with a warm smile stated:
"Let's get in the car, drive to the ocean and look out to the sea."
Suddenly I was awakened by the text tone on my phone. It was 7:04 a.m., an urgent work query begged response and shook me from slumber. After replying, I laid in bed for awhile longer basking in the feeling of intense happiness that washed over my body.
He still visits in my dreams.