My Dear Dad

Gently pulling Quentin out of the car, I envisioned my cute, white-haired Dad resting on the clouds above my parents' home. Overcome with a desire to pull the clouds closer, I longed for the memories of my father to comfort me. I pictured his charismatic smile and thought of one of the famous jokes he always shared. I grinned when I spark of sunshine showered me.

There never was a dull moment with Dad, I thought.

I sniffed, trying to revive the familiar scent that had always calmed me in the past, but realized there was no one or nothing could smell like my dad.

My eyes watered as it was only a month that I watched my father rolled out of the house. Sorrow resurfaced and my hands shook, as I realized a few feet from where I parked is where I witnessed them placing my father in the back of a van. My heart had been ripped just the same as the night strangers close the van doors. To erase those gloomy memories, I imagined instead my dad wearing his fluorescent orange hat that had all the grandkids’ names written on it and him struggling to push the old, deteriorated lawnmower across the front yard. First, warmth filled my chest and then I felt a smile stretch across my face with thoughts of Dad, until I remembered he’d never come back, and the warmth gave way. Vacant inside, unable to focus. The emptiness filled my heart and made my stomach feel heavy. Lifting my chin to help fight back the tears, I staggered, held tight to my son’s hand and focused on sidewalk towards my parents’ apartment.