Honor

He was about my father's age, his kind face the type one trusts implicitly. His mother, a smiling elderly woman, unsteady on her feet, had her hand securely linked in his. 

His father, more spry but definitely harboring nervous tendencies, was carefully picking out plums, emitting querulous demands every minute, to which the son tranquilly responded. 

"Yes, Dad, I've got Mommy. Dad, take a look at these beautiful white peaches! Yes, Dad, I've got Mommy. Would you like some grapes, Mom? Yes, Dad, I've got Mommy." His voice remained the same, steady and soothing, no matter how many times he reassured his father.

The little group made a slow yet thorough tour of the fruit store, meticulously selecting a few items of whatever was deemed attractive enough to the patriarch's eye. The son pacified his father whenever he became agitated; he lovingly supported his mother as she tottered along. He and she would pause occasionally and simply beam at each other. His face—how his face glowed with love and respect.

At the checkout line, while they did have more items than the next customer, she hurried backward, wide-eyed and slack-jawed, letting them pass. The father fretfully suggested that he go ahead to the restaurant next door, and the son, probably for the umpteenth time that day, calmly and considerately phrased the best possible response to ease his father's anxiety.

I dazedly observed this vignette, near tears. How lovely! 

How I am lacking. 

I witnessed this for a reason. I can be a better daughter. I know I can be. I cannot ignore this reminder of opportunity.