On Becoming Him

Hubs is walking towards the door, about to embark on his day.
“Don’t forget your lunch.” I call out to him as I hand him a wonderfully awful processed frozen entrée.

“Oh yeah, thanks babe.” He said, taking the box from me.

I suddenly feel a tinge of guilt. Does this boxed lunch show him how much I really love him? Will he know, when he eats this, that someone loves him and wants him to be happy? Or will he be empty and thirsty when he finishes, sodium-ridden and blue?
“Maybe you should have a ho-ho. You know, for the road.”
And the moment I said it I knew it wasn’t me speaking, but my father. My father who handed me a package of little Debbie Swiss cake rolls and tapped my head before I was allowed to leave to play. The man who taught me the joy of carbohydrates combined with sugar. The very man who passed this morale down to me: You feed those you love, and you feed them well. You keep them happy.

Hubs is diabetic, so I rarely encourage him to eat sugar. He is also a great judge of human interaction.

He eyed me suspiciously. “Yeah, ok, I’ll have a ho-ho, “for the road”…” He smiled at me as he left.

I wonder now if, when he turned his head to close the door, he saw my father staring back at him—a Greek man with useless eyes, wearing a cut off t-shirt, his feet dirty and undressed, waving goodbye… with love.