finger food

My dad makes words out of broken pretzels. He lines them up on the white counter top until someone walks along and appreciates them. Abstract and primitive-looking, it takes a few minutes to de-code his creation. I will slowly smile in his direction, giving him the creative credit he deserves, and go about my business. Like letters being erased from a chalkboard, the pieces disappear one by one as the night continues.

Recently, he's had a hankering for senbei rice crackers, something he learned to love while living in Japan. Mom obliges him and a box sits next to the cookie jar, his first stop after he walks in the door from work. A few weeks ago I came home late. The house was dark and dad was at the piano. Bifocals resting gently on his nose he was carefully studying his music. I walked towards the cookie jar and noticed his latest creation. Smiling, I got his attention. "Dad," I said, gesturing in the direction of this little rice man. He looked over his bi-focals, smiled back at me and turned to face his music. I think it's one of his best.