“You wanna cuppa kawfee kid?” My father asked in his ripped mighty tighty whities. One ball always threatened to fall out of the stretched elastic. He knew I didn’t want his ugly cup of instant, heated in the microwave every Brooklyn morning. Nor did I want the borscht and sour cream he’d offer every night. Nor the pickled herring of his forefathers that appeared in big, greasy jars in the fridge every Sunday. All gone years now. If I could, I’d take that crappy cup of kawfee, get a spoon for the borscht, and avert my eyes from the ball, just to hear his voice one more time.