Collage

Racing at forty miles an hour, smile on my face, drumming on the steering wheel, the acoustics of our favorite Goo Goo Dolls song vibrating throughout the car. There is no where else I want to be.

One of those Saturday mornings where you wake up clenching your flannel sheets for warmth. Comfort. I glide from one step down to the next—awaiting a snowflake mug filled with warm hot chocolate. The cards are dealt, serious smirks take hold of our tired faces, the routine game of Clue has begun. Each roll of the dice I try to read his mind—try to figure out his next move, try to understand what is going through his head.

Fathers be good to your daughters
Daughters will love like you do

The Goo Goo Dolls’ song, Black Balloon, paints his smile, mimics his laugh, brings him to life.

“Isn’t it weird to see your last name on a tombstone?”

The sky, heavy with clouds, shields the moon from lighting the sidewalk. One hand holding mine, the other gripping tightly—so the whites of his knuckles show, the dogs’ leashes.

“Yellow car! I’m winning”, I shout excitedly. Trying to calmly accept the score, he keeps his eyes alert on parking lots with a rainbow of car colors.

Driving through life—no seatbelt, radio blasting, spirits flying. Freedom. Coming to a stoplight I pause and take a look back. Cars backed up. Bumper to bumper. My memories crowding my every thought. Everywhere I go, head straight on my shoulders, Dad close to heart. Strength rooted in grief—stained by tear marks. You can’t wipe the tears away with the windshield wipers. It’s that shark fin in the middle that never gets wiped away.