Sunday Morning, Second Half

The coffee pot sputters like a tired engine. At 6:17 AM, sunlight slices the kitchen into golden bars. Barefoot on icy linoleum, I cradle my dad’s battered Yankees mug. The chip nips my thumb, same place, every morning.

His cough comes from down the hall, dry and rattling, as familiar as my own name.

“Pops, you up?” I call.

A pause. Then: “You got bacon going, or you just gonna talk?” His voice is gravel and duct tape, but it’s there.

The pan hisses as the first bacon strip lands — fat snaps. The scent sneaks beneath every door: smoke, salt, Sunday morning. My phone buzzes. Knicks parade at 11. You coming?

I thumb back: Can’t — dad duty.

“Dad duty?” he snorts. Robe, Knicks shorts, one sock half off. “When I was your age, Dad’s duty meant a belt and a sermon.”

“You never hit me, Pops.”

“Yeah,” he says, eyeing the bacon. “Sermons work better with pork.”

He eases into the kitchen chair. The wood sighs, weary and familiar. His knees pop, louder than last week. I pass him the mug, black with two sugars, no milk. He used to drink it this way before the hospital rewrote our mornings. His hand shakes as he lifts it.

“You’re not supposed to have this.”

“Today’s Father’s Day,” he says. “God takes holidays off.”

He cups the mug in both hands. His knuckles are cracked riverbeds. Steam clouds his glasses. For a heartbeat, he’s 40 again, hollering at refs on TV while I perch on his chair’s arm. I was too young for pick-and-rolls, but old enough to know his curses meant something.

Broadway stirs outside. A bus sighs. Three blocks away, a drumline warms up for the parade. For us, the parade isn’t just a celebration; it’s a symbol that hope and resilience march through the city, even in winter’s grip. Last night’s confetti, orange and blue, clings to the wet street like healing scars, reminding us that beauty and renewal can emerge from chaos.

“Dad, you hear that?”

He cocks his head. “Knicks.”

“They won, Pops. It’s real this time.”

He sips. Winces. Smiles anyway. “Took ’em long enough. I told Willis we’d see it.”

Dad talks to Willis on bad days, embodying resilience. His stories of hope in sneakers remind the audience that strength persists amid challenges.

I turn the bacon. Grease leaps, stings my arm. I don’t react. “You want eggs?”

“Want you to sit down,” he says. “You’ve been standing guard since Tuesday.”

Tuesday was the night the doctor told us the cancer was advanced, with ‘months’ left. Dad looked at him and replied, ‘Weeks.’ The x-ray showed lung spots like clouds, and the word ‘terminal’ bloomed quietly in the room. The humming of the fluorescent lights seemed louder than the doctor’s voice as I gripped the plastic chair, suddenly cold, my fingers numb. Everything began to change after that. Our mornings grew quieter, each routine more gentle, as if we were both learning to navigate new silences. I started making his coffee just the way he used to make it for me, and I noticed him leaning more heavily on his cane, surrendering little pieces of his independence that once seemed unshakeable. Silence pressed hard on my chest, and words got caught in my throat. My tongue tasted like copper. Every heartbeat felt sharp and dizzy, as if the whole world was leaning in, waiting for something I couldn’t say. Fear sat heavy in my stomach, relentless and twisting tighter with every uncertain minute. In that moment, I was terrified of what was coming and worried about failing him when he needed me the most.

Remembering the ‘73 parade, I ask, ‘You put me on your shoulders,’ hoping to evoke shared joy and deepen the emotional connection with the audience.

“You screamed the whole time,” he says. “Said the confetti attacked you.”

“It was. I was four.”

He laughs, but then it turns into that cough. Instinct makes me move to his side before his chair stops shaking. He waves me back and taps his chest.

“Still here,” he rasps. “Parade’s not over. Not yet.”

I ease the eggs beside the bacon on his plate. My hands are too gentle, as if the meal or the moment might shatter. For a second, I notice how tightly I am holding my breath, my chest prickling with nerves. The sharp scent of bacon mixes with a tangle of fear and tenderness in my throat. He studies the plate, then me. His gaze lingers, heavy with something unspoken, and it stirs everything I am trying to hold together.

“You know what I remember?” he says. “Not the game. Not the trophy. I remember you fell asleep on the subway home, head on my arm. Drooled all down my jacket. I didn’t move for 40 minutes.”

The drumline kicks up again, closer this time. The windows tremble with the beat.

“Pops, what if we go?” I ask. “Just for an hour. You, me, curb on Broadway. You can yell at Randle in person.”

He studies me. The gold stripes from the blinds cut across his face, light and shadow. “You’d carry me if my knees quit, wouldn’t you?”

“I carried Wolf off that bridge,” I say before I can stop myself.

The words spill out quickly, driven by an old reflex: Wolf. He was my best friend since middle school, the stubborn kid who once dared me to jump from the abandoned footbridge over the creek when I was too scared to move. Years later, it was my turn to haul him back when the world became too heavy, showing him what it means to have someone carry you for a while.

Wolf drifted out of my life not long after that, trouble always lurking around him, until all that remained was the memory of that night by the creek and how his name feels when I speak it now. Remembering Wolf makes me reflect on you and me, too — how sometimes being a son means learning to be carried, and sometimes being a father means allowing someone else to help you walk. I often wonder if that’s what we all do: take turns carrying each other when we can’t walk alone. He blinks.

“What?”

Nothing. Story I’m writing.”

He snaps a piece of bacon. “Alright, Rook. First half’s done. Let’s see the second.”

He stands. Slow. I don’t help. He doesn’t want it. He grabs his cane, the one with the Knicks sticker peeling off the side.

I turn off the burner. The pan ticks as it cools. Coffee, bacon, and drumline sounds fill the air together: bitter, salty, loud.

He puts his hand on my shoulder. It’s light, so light it barely rests there, but it means everything.

“Happy Father’s Day,” I say.

“Happy Son’s Day,” he says. “Now get my hat. Can’t see the parade hatless.”

As we approached the door, he wrapped himself in his robe while I embraced the coolness of the morning air with bare feet. With each step onto the stoop, the distant rhythms of drums grew more vibrant, and the cheers from Broadway danced around us, filling the atmosphere with life and energy. Confetti fluttered playfully by our feet; the parade band was clearly in full swing, and the laughter of the crowd sparkled like magic in the soft morning light. For our family, the parade has always symbolized hope — a beautiful reminder that life in the city continues to flourish, and that old dreams can blossom anew in fresh, exciting ways. My grandfather took my dad to the parade when he was young, and in turn, my dad lovingly brought me along, both of us perched high, watching the waves of blue and orange wash away the remnants of winter. This year, as we stepped out together, the moment felt even more special. Golden light cascaded down the hall, enveloping us in a warm embrace and illuminating our path with the promise that something wonderful lies ahead. In that moment, the warmth of gold felt like a tangible hope we could carry with us, inviting us to embrace the adventures yet to come.

The second half starts now.

I used to think that the second half of a game was just about holding on, draining the clock, and maybe chasing a wild comeback in a noisy arena, sweat and hope intertwined. But now, standing at the door with Pops, I realize it carries a weight I never understood before. The first half was all about being supported — riding on his shoulders during parades, enjoying stories and bacon-filled mornings, and learning how safe it feels to lean on someone.

The second half is different. It’s my turn to carry him, to be strong when his knees falter, and to ensure that no matter how long the quarter lasts, he is not alone. I don’t know how many minutes we have left on the clock, but we step forward together into the golden light of morning, side by side, determined to make the most of every moment until the final buzzer. Maybe that is what hope truly is: carrying each other onward, regardless of the score. And perhaps, for us, that is enough.

Still, I find myself wondering what comes after the final whistle, after the chairs are emptied and the drums fall silent. I am afraid of the quiet, of mornings without his cough echoing down the hall, of reaching for stories and finding only echoes in return. But on this golden morning, I dare to hope that I will remember how to move forward, armed with all the lessons he taught me about love, support, and hope. Maybe that will be enough, too.

By Shamarie Knight