He travels with an entourage these days, one in front, and one in back, frequently hangers-on crowd along his side.  His gait is deliberate. People take notice when he enters a room.  They pause from their meal, their conversation, their cocktail and watch as the group passes.

Ahead, the door is held for him, wide and welcoming. Heads turn at a table nearby, all eyes upon him.  People smile, and titter, and make way. Someone standing nearby quickly moves an errant chair out of the way as he heads toward a chosen table.  The table is covered with the bounty of summer.  Bowls of fresh cherries shimmer in the sun, chilled glasses of recently poured IPAs fizz, while giving off a golden glow.

A woman, noticing him at the door, leaves her position at the table and heads over to him.  She moves efficiently, yet gracefully, in his direction.  Her sun-kissed nose and cheeks reflect the flickering light.  Her hair curls softly about her face, the blonde dulled with age, but still lovely.  She smiles comfortably as she approaches, and holds her arm out to him.

“This way, Dad,” she says, as she steers him toward her table.  The entourage peels away like the petals of a banana, leaving the tender fruit exposed.

“Oh, it’s you!  Are you Kathy or are you Sue?” he asks with a goodnatured smile.

“It’s me, Dad.  It’s Kathy.”