“Hey guys, move out of dad’s way, please,” the father pleads.
“Heavy boxes. Can’t see my feet. Move quick, please,” his cries go unheard.
Children scamper underfoot. The front door, the only goal that mattered now, seemed to be moving away from him.
“Kids, I really need good listeners right now,” he asked the children. The young humans had no time for the petty ramblings of someone over 30.
The father marched on, gambling with each step. He hadn’t felt this alive in years.
The front stoop and its stairs were within reach. He climbed one, two steps.
His missed the third and raced to the ground.
“Ouch! Frig..God da…ffffff” he said, holding his skinned elbow, but keeping mindful of his language choices.
“Dad, are you okay?” The children noticed him now.
“Argh,” he rolled the box of hardware store good off of his abdomen, “yeah, yeah guys, fine. Just, uh, jeepers, just excited for fish sticks. Yeah, I was going to say fish sticks while I was rolling on the ground there.”
The children had long since stopped listening.