We cruise down the road lickety-split, my Pop and I, his head held high as he glances both left and right in that abrupt way he has, nodding to friends and strangers as we make our way quickly into the park, where this one big Sycamore with a shade as big as the sky seems to be Pop’s destination; and then my Pop says, “Mack, this tree is one of the oldest trees in the park, a tree with a history and my very special favorite,” and then – as if to punctuate his words - he hitches up one hind leg and urinates for a very long time all over the base and trunk, his tongue hanging out loosely and a satisfied smile on his face as he watches the world of Willowsprings spin on its axis during this hot summer day, and I know that all is well with my Pop.
Don
Dedicated to ShortNCuddlyAm
