A pint with my father

The smoked meat strung up and hanging above the bar, I wonder if it is real or just a modern day pub prop?

Dad orders another round casually nodding to the bar man, a subtle move learned on the other continent. I gladly accept whatever beer he orders just to be propped up on this wicker stool in his company with a pint is nirvana.

We speak of life and football and children and football, Dad complains that nobody dribbles anymore and regales me of tales of the one they called "Jinky" and how he was able to dance among the tall pines of blue with ease.

I sit and sip with my mind clear and fresh, the fog of business, mortgage, economy and all other obstacles has been washed away by the blanket like sounds of my father's voice coupled with the fermentation of liquid joy.

Even a grown man needs the strong arm and the slap on the back from the one he calls Father.
Cheers...