Sage tortilla

My father can talk. He tells a story the way a builder erects a home. The land is cleared, a foundation poured and cured, plumbing is fitted as frames are nailed one by one into place. Time passes, and the bits and pieces fit together to reveal a home, fully functioning and furnished as the story comes to a close.

This is his way, my father. And whether or not you've heard the words before, you will hear them again. The house will rise.

His best moments of advice are relics of lessons long learned.

Me: "I'm not catching any fish, Dad!"
Dad: "You're just not holding your mouth right."

or

"You need to clean the inside of your windshield, too, son."

and

"Just humor me and bring along a jacket."

because

"Son, haven't you learned by now that I'm all knowing."

which has been proven by

"Now, you can eat a jalapeño but don't touch your eyes afterwards. It will hurt like hell."

It's that last bit of sage wisdom that finally bit me. For although I didn't touch the habañero, it had been put in the wrapper with my burrito at El Pollo Loco.

I hate that burrito.

And I rubbed my allergic eyes.

I RUBBED MY GODDAMN EYE!

An icy hot pick of pain and confusion probed towards my brain. That same alligator-brain immediately commanded me to claw my own eye out. I rushed to the bathroom of El Pollo Loco (which in and of itself is not extraordinary). The door was locked!
It seemed that yes, indeed, the eye would need to come out. Right-the-hell-now.

At times like this I am lucky that Dr. Wife is in charge. She calmly knocked the surgical spork from my clutches and calmly handed me some cool, wet paper towels.

Ah, the cooling glory of water on a humble brown industrial paper towel. Of this, songs are writ.

With time and water, the pain gradually traded places with laughter as my dad's advice came rolling to my mind. Thanks for trying, Dad. I really was listening.