My Mom and Dad first met at a Denny’s – over the twangs of forks and knives hitting plates, sweet maple syrup, and buttery pancakes. I can picture my mother, with long, dancing hair, sipping coffee, my father across the room with a beard and a plate of eggs, sunny side up. I can see their eyes meeting, a quick glance. A smile.
My dad wrote his phone number on a napkin – a pen always kept in his back pocket, wherever he went. But my mother, my blushing mother, accidently threw away the napkin – and his number.
As the days went on, my father called my mother, leaving messages, calling and calling. But she didn’t know who he was – “Who is this man?” – I could picture her saying. If I was there, I could tell her. Your husband.
Finally, she called him, and it was the beginning – the beginning of a friendship, of a new story, of a family.
And twenty years later, they sit together, my mother sipping her coffee, my father and his eggs, sunny side up.
Created: May 22, 2012jackieDee Document Media