Dad
This I wrote on October 5, 2006 for my junior year Creative Writing class.
Dad
I would live for those days, when he would grab me on some Saturday and we’d drive towards the Citgo sign and I would count the streetlights the whole way through that winding tunnel.
Sometimes, I would get bored with the lights and I’d begin to count the lane breaks in the road instead. The only problem with that was they would always go by so quickly that I’d feel sick and close my eyes halfway into Boston. But that was okay. For my mind became preoccupied with getting out of the car and stocking the candy machines, just my good ol’ dad and me.
Other Saturdays, he would drive me to ballet class and afterwards we would buy pizza and he’d play Keno with the numbers that I chose. I would never learn until much later that we could hardly afford the pizza, never mind the fancy ballet shoes that I couldn’t wait to wear…not because I wanted to dance, but because I wanted to have that special Saturday with my good ol’ dad.
When I outgrew the candy machines, the shoes, and the Keno, my Saturdays found friends. So, he found excuses to stop whatever he had been doing to bring me to these friends. I always thought my timing was just convenient, but I realize now that he yearned for those Saturdays spent with his favorite daughter as much as I yearned for those Saturdays spent with my favorite pals, none of which being my good ol’ dad anymore.
I finally grew old enough to miss him. But with this, I also grew old enough for bills of my own and I became forced to spend my Saturdays serving fatty food to fatty people. They were mostly dads with their own daughters, probably grabbing that little bite to eat before driving towards that Citgo sign that would create memories for her for the rest of her life. So he drove me to work every Saturday, no matter how early it was, and I still got that little five minutes in to talk and to smile with my good ol’ dad.
But then the day came where I drove myself to work every Saturday, conversing with myself and dreaming about those long lost Saturdays.
We hardly talk now and it isn’t because of the lack of shoes or gambling, or the increase in fatty food. I only wish I knew what it was due to so that I could fix it.
However, I do know that when he asks me how my poem came out tonight, I am going to tell him that I didn’t end up writing it. I wish I could tell him that I did write it, and that it was beautiful because it was about him, but I could never tell him that I was too scared to.
If I could, I’d tell him that a tear escaped my little eyeball, the eyeball he helped create.
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