His father, from where he lay reclining in his deck-chair, grinned up at him. "You can trust your old father to take care of himself, can't you? Remember I was old when you were a chit of a boy. So hand me over that tin and don't become argumentative about it."
"You weren't old, father. You were 40, at the prime of your life. And now you're nearly 70. You can't just eat whatever takes your fancy" said Rob, still trying to maintain his sharp tone. Unfortunately, the manner which served him so well at his office failed to cut ice here. Yet when Rob felt he was in the right he would become stubborn over it, and no one could make him give way. A few minutes later the conflict still remained unresolved. The two men thrashed out their opinions thoroughly, though neither allowed their voice to rise, or the volume to go up.
Rob knew his father enjoyed this kind of harmless banter and conflict of opinions. Whenever his options for amusing himself through the TV or some book were limited he would wander around the house seeking someone he could cross swords (figuratively) with. He didn't usually settle for Rob because Rob wasn't a good debater - he mostly repeated his same arguments with increasing force. Still, one has to take what one gets, thought his father, as he prepared all his objections to being fussed around like some dying invalid. As a matter of fact, no one fussed over him, realising the complete futility and the superfluity of it. Rob's father hadn't the least need to be fussed over, but, Rob thought severely, someone had to interfere if he was going to ruin his health by gorging on chocolates all day through.
Rob was defending his point with single-minded tenacity, exasperating his father no end, who liked to hear some new points thrown up, but at that moment Rob's son, a lovable, lively young lad ambled up and provided a welcome distraction. He demanded of his grandfather if he hadn't noticed the fireflies flying around in the garden. It was a game between them to go into the garden every evening and try and count the fireflies. There were plenty of them, and they never agreed on the number. Still, it was fun counting and then arguing about it later on. Rob hailed with relief the break-up of the argument and disappeared into the house, carrying the tin of chocolate with him. He wondered where he could dump it so his father wouldn't find it again.
Dump - of course! Half an hour later Rob stood waving the dump truck off, inside which a happy boy was sitting clutching a huge tin of chocolates. He was the son of the truck owner, and he always came on the expedition to Rob's house because he knew there was always some little thing for him there. The truck stopped at the traffic-light and the urchin opened the tin and nibbled on a piece of delightful confectionery. He smiled, content, his eyes alight under his charcoal black hair.
Rob went back to the garden, alike content. His father and his son were sitting there in the dusk, laughing uproariously and earnestly engaged in counting the fireflies. His wife brought him a cup of steaming tea , freshly brewed, from the kitchen. He could smell it from where he stood. The always serious, grave Rob suddenly smiled and his eyes sparkled with unutterable happiness. He felt glad for his life as he stood drinking in the scene and somehow, that one moment stayed in his mind for all the rest of his life, though he didn't know the importance of it then. He merely commented to his wife that those people who said life was a vale of tears didn't know what they were talking about. And, after reflection, she had to admit he was right.
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