In the kitchen sink sits the small green plastic strainer that my mom used to catch organic things as she washed the dishes. It is now used to filter cigarette ashes when my father washes his ashtray which isn't really ashtray but a small dish. Kind of an ode to when he quit smoking 40 years ago during our Russian River family vacation (happy joy joy). Truth be told no one except him really knows for how long he quit. There was the cigar phase and then the sneaking of cigarettes phase. Men do like their secrets and this was one of his.

After my mom fell ill two years ago and then died 18 month ago I would notice my dad sneaking a cigarette along the side of the house or ducking out somewhere with my younger brother Don for a smoke. On my last trip here six weeks ago I "caught" him smoking on the porch facing the morning sun. He asked me to sit with him on the porch but I found it cold as San Francisco is typically in June. And I found the sun blinding, so went inside and watched sports center. On this trip the cigarette smoking has made it back inside the house, in front of the TV. Why not, he is 86, and he lives alone.

There are other signs of a winnowing life. He cancelled his Chronicle subscription after 60 years despite reading it daily. He said he mainly got it for the obituaries and there is no one he knows that is still drying. Plus the San Mateo times is better. And free. Free is important. He also stopped using the small trash bin in his kitchen. He has some issue with trash bins I guess. When my brother Don and his wife Jane lived with him for a while after my mom's death they installed a proper yet slightly obscene trash bin, one that would not need to be emptied daily. It was gone shortly after they moved out and the small one returned. Now the small one is not used, my dad preferring to use food containers to hold trash and dumping them whenever he leaves the house.

Other signs? He cancelled his internet service. He presented me a picture of Aidan and Lydia that Yang gave my parents shortly after Lydia was born. He asked if I wanted it. I said, I already have one. He was on a mission to give my sisters one of my Mom's purses that he found while looking for a watch. Most of my mom's stuff appears to be just where she left it, when she left us.

As I type this he comes down the stairs from his bedroom and we makes plans to get coffee together. He tells me he first needs to do the three Ss. Even though he's never used that phrase with me before I immediately know what it means because I am his son. He does not need to elaborate. But I know he will. "Shit, Shower, and Shave" he says. "Ok", I say.

A couple of nights ago we go to "in-n-out" burger and he asks me what I want. As always, to avoid conflict and because I've not one of those empowered "no harm to ask" folks, I say "whatever you are having". We get a burger each. We split a shake. As we eat he asks the young man sitting next to us what the ring on his finger is for. The young man says it's his college ring. My dad says he should give it to the young woman sitting across from him. They are clearly not a couple, at least in my fantasy. The young man laughs and the young woman who did not hear my dad asks "what did he say?" to which the young man said "nothing". My dad, trying to be helpful tells the young woman "I told him he should give you a ring" to which there was some slightly uncomfortable laughter followed by my dad saying to the young non couple that he doesn't have many friends. We finish our burgers. I drink most of the shake.

I sit at the dining room table typing this. I look around and I am surrounded by "things". Things that my mom arranged that haven't been moved in years. They are not really my style but I am attached to them. Attachment brings emotion. I think again about my mom's style. Was it be design or accident? I wonder what my style, besides being vacant it. I wonder what my dad's style is.