Sunday breakfast was my time with Dad when I was growing up. We would read the comics and share a sweet pastry. Bear claws were our favorite. Dad would split one right down the middle. “Take your half,” he’d tell me, and we’d enjoy every bite. Even after I grew up and moved out, Dad would still save half of his weekly bear claw and give it to me the next time I came over for dinner.
One day, we went out for coffee to talk about our trip to New York City, which was coming up in a couple weeks. Dad, a proud New Yorker, was so excited to show me his favorite spots. “I want to take you to this diner I used to go to every morning before work,” he said. “I would always get a cup of coffee and a snail.” I couldn’t help but laugh. Like a bear claw, a snail was such a funny name for a pastry. “I can’t wait to share a snail in the city,” I said.
We never got the chance. Just a week later, Dad died of a stroke. I was overcome by grief. I couldn’t even bring myself to find comfort in a bear claw. The thought of eating one without Dad taking the other half made me too sad.
A few months later, I was at the office and went to the kitchen for a cup of coffee. On the counter was a pink bakery box. Out of curiosity more than hunger, I peeked inside. Only a few pastries were left—including a bear claw, cut perfectly down the middle. And next to it was a snail. “Take your half,” I could almost hear Dad say. I did, and I enjoyed every bite.
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