Took the kids up the steps at home and the little one insisted on climbing without a hand. I stayed bent over behind him, ready, until my back reminded me I wasn't the one learning to walk up steps. At work I know exactly where my feet and hands are on a climb. At home I can twist myself into anything because somebody wants to show me something. We sat on the top step afterward, his shoulder against my arm, both of us breathing a little harder than the distance deserved. He was pleased, I was hungry. The marble was cool through my jeans and I stayed there till my wife called us in a second time.

One of the old pier guys mentioned my dad while we were waiting, just a story about him refusing a terrible cup of coffee. Nothing ceremonial, which made it good. I could hear exactly how he'd have said it and laughed before the guy got to the end. Then I wanted him to keep talking, even if it was a story I'd heard already. I miss the ordinary version of my father more often than the big occasions would suggest. The one who complained about coffee and knew who'd borrowed his tools. I told Mom the story after work. She said he drank worse coffee at home without saying a word. That made me laugh again, and I was glad I'd called.

I was showing a trainee something I'd done a thousand times and found I couldn't explain why I knew to pause at that particular moment. I started with 'you can feel it', which isn't much use to a person who hasn't felt it yet. Made me think about how much of the job I carry as a picture rather than as words. I went back through what I was actually watching and what changed before I moved. Took longer than doing it myself. The kid asked a question I'd never thought to ask at his stage. I've been turning it over since, not because he's wrong, but because the answer I first gave him was more habit than explanation.