a grayer beard than last year

I'm sitting at the bar in our kitchen watching my dad make beer. He siphons the dark malty mixture out of the metal pot on the counter, and it rushes through a clear hose into a glass bottle the size of my sister. He dips a bit of the liquid out into a beaker, and then floats a weird bubbly measurey thing in it. He mutters numbers to himself. I don't say anything, and he doesn't say anything.

 I like watching my dad do things he's good at and knows a lot about. It's the same feeling as when we're in the car together, and he starts explaining middle eastern politics for half-hours at a time.

"Look at it clarify already," he says without glancing at me. "If the whole batch ends up that clear, it will be good."

"I was noticing that," I said. Even though we're speaking, the silence isn't broken.