His sons were gathering up half a dozen old newspapers scattered across the yard. David set his stack on the top step. “Maybe Papa Sirak should cancel the newspaper if he’s not going to read it.” “He loves the paper. He must not be feeling well.” Keri knocked on the door again. Standing on his tiptoes, he peered over the curtains into the darkened kitchen. Michael set his newspapers on top of David’s. “Maybe he forgot.” “I just reminded him on Thursday. Let’s go around back.” They walked around the side of the house and headed down the weed-studded brick driveway. Rounding a twisted dogwood tree, they spied a lone figure slumped in a lounge chair in the shade of a massive oak tree. Keri rushed across the yard and gently gripped his father’s arm. “Papa,” he whispered. Sirak awoke with a start. “What is it?” he gasped. “Happy Father’s Day, Papa. The boys and I are here to take you to lunch.” “It’s Sunday already?” Sirak wiped the sleep from his eyes and turned in his seat.
