Many Tuesday mornings I have coffee with my father. Although my father is a man of few words, I really1the time along with him.
One recent Tuesday, I found it a bit2when I rang the doorbell, no one seemed to be home. After climbing in through the window, I3through his home, checking every room. I tried not to4. Yet, upstairs, downstairs, no Dad anywhere.
I was worried.5, my father was seventy-one years old. Anything could have happened to him. Then, I got in my car and drove to my mother's aerobics (有氧运动) class.
On the drive, I thought a lot about our history together. Suddenly, I was three years old and he was6me up to the living room window to see the Christmas lights. In his7, I was safe and secure. Then I was twelve and my dad was8all the kids at my birthday party with his magic tricks. I was so9of my father for being so talented. He'd made my party a10.
As I entered my mother's class, I was nervous. My mom looked at me in11. "Mom, where's Dad?" I asked, "He's working in the12on the side of the house!" she answered.
And I hurried to my car and13back to the yard. "Hey, Dad!" I yelled out and told him about my fears of the last half hour. And so, as I14the door to my father's house, we went inside for our usual cup of coffee.
Thanks, Daddy, for all the15and more importantly, for all your love.
