Knock Knock

Everyone in my family has a signature knock. Rich's isn't so much a knock as much as it is a knock/walk-right-in express combo. He's never really understood that after you knock you're supposed to wait for a response. If I didn't adore him so much, I'd send him away. My Dad's is quite distinct, his knuckles rapping in sync, three times on the door. He knocks on my door nearly every night as he's on his way from Rich's room back to his and Mom's before tucking in.

I don't know what I'd do without my Dad - the jokes, the puns (even the bad ones are truly clever), the post-its on the bathroom mirror, the notes on the back step, the teasing, the delicious crepes, the spontaneous moments he breaks into song - like yesterday when E came to borrow the popcorn maker. She clutched it in her hands, ever so lovingly as we chatted, dreaming of the caramel corn to come. My Dad bounded in from church, scriptures in tow, the usual stride in his step. On cue, and in falsetto no less, he burst out, "Popcorn popping on the apricot tree!" He had passed us by the time he got the last word out, as if he thought we wouldn't notice his impromptu performance. I'm quite sure this is a location thing, unless you know my Dad. E and I looked at each other for a second, then gave my Dad just the response he'd want: giggles. It's in the silly moments, and the serious ones, that I feel like the luckiest girl in the world!