Old Crow and Marlboro Red

Coming home from school was never that weird, but this time – this time is different.  This time Dad will not be there.  His deep, raspy voice filled with a little joy, and a hint of Old Crow.  His seven day shadow will no longer scratch my face when we embrace.  No, this is different.

            When teachers asked classes who their favorite authors were many students answered the likes of Lewis, Hemingway, and Tolkien.  But not me.  I always answered that it was my father.  Those other students only had parchments with words from and about their favorites.  I had a man.

            I could sit in a room, with yellowed wallpaper peeling off due to cigarettes, the overpowering scent of whiskey that could make a small boy dizzy, and that computer.  He loved his Mac.  He would never own, or touch, something else.  Nor could I.  He would always say, “If the world ran on Apples, then there would be world peace.”  That was the liberal arts coming out of him.

            As I crossed into the city limits I could feel my heart die.  It died more and more as I continued to my house – his house.  I was shaking by the time I pulled into the driveway.  Parking brake now on, ignition now off, my tears begin falling.  I cannot stop the sobbing that continues for the next five minutes.  He’s not going to come to my window and console me.  His arms are not going to be here.

            I could always turn to him when I was sad.  I could show my true emotions that the world scoffed at.  He let the waterfalls cascade upon his shoulders.  When the waters subsided, he would then cheer me up with another one of his stories.  Like the one about the Rabbit Kings or the Octopus that liked to paint.  “The octopus – Jenny was her name – painted all day long.  With what?  With water colors, of course.”  The mere memory of these bring a smile to my face.  I wipe my eyes and grab the Old Crow Whiskey bottle and go to the door.  Pause.  Am I ready for Mom?  Inhale.  Exhale.  Now’s better than never.  I can hardly feel the door knob as I turn it.  This seems too surreal.  This can’t be anything but a dream.