[ RF ] A man offers you a cigarette . You see the man , to your surprise , to be your Dad .

`` You usually do n't smoke.'' 
 
 `` Eh, once in a while wo n't kill you,'' my father says. We hold the unlit cigarettes in our hands and begin to laugh. 
 
 The hospital patio sits on the east lawn of the complex. We catch the first glimpse of sunrise before it crests over the treeline. My grandfather sits in room 307 with an oxygen mask and several machines reading his vitals. He is 65 years old, but is told to have the lungs of a man in his 80s. My father is in his blue and gray overalls from the garage and he is staring at the dawning sky. His profile reminds me nothing of myself and it's true what they say about it skipping a generation. My grandfather and I share similar traits - weak chin, strong cheekbones, narrow eyes. 
 
 My father clears his throat and asks, `` Did you eat?'' 
 `` Last night. You?'' 
 `` Nah, I'm not hungry. C'mon here comes the sun. Let's get some coffee.'' 
 
 The hospital complex is like a city unto itself. A din of dishwashers fills the cafeteria and few people have made their way here for breakfast. In the corner an elderly nurse holds a cup of coffee close to his face and allows the warmth to soothe his nerves. He stares at us and offers a great, big smile that shows his canines. 
 
 My father and I each get a cup of coffee and I make an excuse to pay. Stubborn like myself my father insists on paying. He holds his fingers up like he's holding a spider web, but I already know that he's trying to distract me to look at a corner of the room so he can quickly hand the money to the cashier. 
 
 `` How're Vivian and the kids?'' He asks while taking a sip of his coffee. 
 
 `` They're good. Just about ready for Thanksgiving.'' 
 
 `` Yeah, alright. Turkey. My buddy Robert and me got a bet to see who can make the better pie. I ai n't going to do no baking, but Robert thinks that it's a sport.'' 
 
 `` Robert from the garage?'' 
 
 `` Nah, he's from the neighborhood.'' 
 
 I do n't know what else to say. I ask about his girlfriend. 
 
 `` Ah. How's Gretchen?'' 
 
 `` Good I guess. I have n't seen her in three months,'' my father says taking a sip from his coffee and instinctively going for the unlit cigarette tuck behind his ear. He hesitates and puts it on the table. 
 
 `` Sorry to hear that. She seemed nice.'' 
 
 `` Sometimes nice is n't enough. Your mom good?'' 
 
 I take two packets of sugar and tip them into my cup. `` She's always happy to see her grandchildren. Made them wool caps.'' 
 
 `` God that woman. We were together for 32 years! And she never once made me a mitten.'' 
 I begin to laugh, because I do n't know what else to do. 
 
 The elevator smells of antiseptics and lemon zest. No matter how much zest or cherry flavors they spray the antiseptics win out. I am wearing a cheap suit flung on twenty seven hours ago when I received the call that my grandfather was close to his end. But to my surprise when I arrived he was flirting with the nurses and complaining about the weather. 
 
 `` I have to write a letter to the news station. Have them make it stop being so cold.'' Those were his last words before he drifted off into a soundless sleep. 
 
 My father and I walk by the open door to room 307. Lights, machines, faded sheets, faded tattoos, puckered skin, my grandfather's push broom mustache. His eyelids are lightly fluttering, though he is not in the mood for any jokes. 
 
 Out on the patio we lean against the railing and my father begins to hum a song. Both our cigarettes are still tucked behind our ears. I know that we'll get into them soon enough.
