Written by Olivia M Ojeda, October 2018
Memory brings me to this place from time to time. I’m content with it when it does. I can see you when I want, I mean, I can turn my head and look at you again. But I am drifting. This memory is my favorite and I can show you, reader, if you’ll allow. The sun is setting, settling really. After a hot busy day the Sun finally relinquishes his hold on us and begins to relax and cool over Pittsburg and its imperfect mix of concrete, dirt, and trees. Ahead is a black-top hill; a two lane road, and the setting sun’s deep orange glow thrust upon it. I’m moving up the hill in my dad’s ’56 Ford pickup that he built and prized since I was little, which, in this memory, I am little. As I sit in the passenger seat most of what I see is his glove compartment that is made of metal and a small metal knob fixed in the middle of it. It nestles into a shiny burgundy dashboard that carries the deep color to the rest of the truck.
To the left of me is my little brother. Memory pins this picture of him as a small, wild, boy with dark brown hair and an excited smile. To the left of him is my dad. What I mostly see is his left hand on the black steering wheel.
He has big strong hands that reflect his tough, solid, resilient self that seemed to be made to withstand adversity or careless handling.
His hair is brown and slicked back on top of his head revealing a strikingly handsome man. My dad was driving us to a park at a nearby school. It’s an empty park with a large sandbox, swings, and pull-up bars. Only a slight sting in the air can be felt now as the heat of the day is fading. Fading more is my dad into the dusty glow of orange and pink sunlight that reaches and touches the entire park.
While my brother and I run around, my dad does pull ups on the bars and push ups on the wooden planks that bound the sand. I watch him as I run. He is wearing a wife-beater tank top that frames his tan shoulders, and shorts with socks that sprawl to his shins. While he does pull-ups he bends his knees and crosses his ankles behind him. My dad was a large man but in this memory, that of a child’s, he is much larger. That’s it. That is my memory. It’s a simple one, and to you, reader, it might seem insignificant. But when you don’t have your father anymore that’s what you’re left with, and that’s what you rely on. A child’s memory. A picture of simpler times when you could watch him while you run and hold him in your gaze.
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