We walk in the door of Westside Diner, dad turns to me and says, "Where do you want to sit?"

"I don't care. Wherever is open."

There was a booth open close to the door, where we chose to sit. The red booth seats are old and the cushions, well, not what they used to be. They grow more uncomfortable with every passing minute. I look around to see the walls covered with pictures of Elvis Presley, James Dean, Marilyn Monroe, Lucille Ball, The Beatles. The list goes on and on. I'm in a time capsule straight out of the 50s/early 60s.

Our waitress, an older lady, has been working there since I was a kid. I remember her, but she doesn't remember me. She walks up to our booth, "What are you boys having?"

" Coffee," we say simultaneously.

"And to eat?"

"I'll have a full stack of blueberry pancakes, two eggs over easy, and turkey sausage," he replied.

"And you?"

"Western omelette, with whole wheat toast."

"I'll put that in right away."

Our waitress walks away, to put in our order, but returns with coffee.

"Ahhhh that's good," I thought to myself after the first sip. I feel myself becoming more awake.

"You know, every time we come here I contemplate pancakes, and every time, I chose the same thing. " I said.

"That's too bad, they're really good." he answered.

As I'm sitting across from him, I look up to see my dad. His glasses sit firmly on his face. His mustache and what hair he has left on his head are both grey. He's weathered by years of hard work and dealing with my crap. He sits there quietly.

We are both scrolling through our phones, I'm on Twitter, and I assume he's on Facebook. To break the silence, I ask, "So, do you think the Lions have a chance today?"

"Who do they play?" he asked in reply.

"Minnesota."

He pursed his lips and and gave me the look that is all too familiar when talking about the possibility of a Lions win. His answer, well, it wasn't exactly reassuring either.

Dad and I switched up the conversation to his work week and threw in some Michigan football. We began to joke, he reminisced on his yesteryears, while I told stories of the year before. The laughter continued through three coffee refills and it was finally time to eat.

Our food arrived, and we began to feast.

Dad has his system for eating his pancakes. He cuts them into triangles, pours the syrup, then places his eggs on top. Seems weird right? Well, It's actually very good.

We finish eating, and our waitress asks of the bill is together or separate. I hesitate. I didn't bring my wallet with me if it we pay separately. Luckily Dad said it was together.

As he pays, I can't help but think of how fortunate I am to have a dad who still is willing to pay for my breakfast, even at the age of 23. These are moments, I will never take for granted. I love you, Dad.