Slippers

My dad always kept his keys on his belt, connected with one of those magic spring chain jobs. I loved pulling it; it was down at eye level for what seemed like forever. Pull, spring! 'Ow!' or, more often, 'goddammit Cynthia!'. (I blame this for the incident at the lunch table two weeks ago where someone named Harry supposedly said 'damn!' and then initiated a discussion about proper spelling of same.)

My dad worked a long blend of shop and office hours when I was kid. He was gone before I was awake and then we waited and waited for him to get home so we could have dinner. We would wait for the call saying he was leaving and then count down the 30 minutes until he arrived. In the summer, I remember him walking up the back sidewalk singing, 'come along home, Cindy, Cindy' while I hung on a monkey bar on the backyard swing set. I also remember how clever I thought my mom was with the spiral tape and blue and white paint. (In the winter I remember watching through the patio door that I was not supposed to touch even though Harry and Suzy can put stickers on it, just saying.) Mostly I remember pulling that key string as he walked by.

We don't have key strings at our house, we have slippers. 70 and 30 pound slippers. Some of us like them more than others.