Simmer

The earliest memory I have of my dad is when I was three years old. I know that I was three because I am sitting on the chocolate-colored rug that only existed in my old house, before the fire. He’s pointing the video camera at me and this baby blue, larger-than-life teddy bear that towers over my squat, chubby frame. He’s talking too, but nothing audible comes out; the entire scene plays out in silence inside my head. Smiling, he waves and gestures for me to hug my new gift, which I eventually do after much coaxing. Once the Kodak moment is captured, he sets the camera down and picks me up, engulfing me in his big dad-arms that smell like food and smoke because he has just gotten off from working at the restaurant. I bury my face in his chest and inhale.

The latest memory I have of my dad is the January morning I left to return to Middlebury. We’ve been sitting in his truck for over an hour, driving to the airport in no particular hurry. We’re also in the middle of a lull because he has just finished shouting (or in his mind, lecturing) at me for my lack of drive and motivation at school while I have put on the earphones to my iPod to block out the words, wondering why I had let mom convince me last night to ask him to take me instead. You hardly talk to him anymore, she said, spend some time with him. He’s missed you. Don’t you miss him? I had pretended not to hear her question, and now it’s reverberating inside the walls of my mind, refusing to go away. I sneak a glance. Having fallen silent, his eyes stay on the road, so I finally close mine after wiping the last of my tears away.

~*~*~*~*

Someday, I will write you. It's just taking a long time.