Dad’s walk

On Sunday mornings when I was a kid, my father would go out for doughnuts, juice, and a big, thick Sunday newspaper. When he came back, Jenn and I would feast while lying on the floor reading the comics.
That seemed like a good way to spend this lazy Sunday morning so I ran out to recreate my childhood. But on the walk down to the doughnut shop, I had a change of perspective.
I’d stuffed some money in my pocket and grabbed Tod’s keys but went without my cell phone, breaking my usual complement of “keitai, cash and keys.” Maybe that should be “wireless, wallet and wards” for non-Japanese speakers.
Anyway, I was free of communication devices for the first time in quite a while. I hadn’t realised the subtle, unconscious foreboding that I have when my keitai is near. “Is my phone going to ring?” “Will I hear it?” “Has anyone called me?”
As I walked along, enjoying the outrageously blue skies and crisp wind, I wondered if Dad’s Sunday morning walks were similarly unencumbered. He knew that the family was back home waiting for treats, just as I knew Tod was looking forward to doughnuts, but was otherwise at liberty to be alone for a while.
That’s the kind of liberty I like.