Thursday, April 9, 2009
My Dad's Buick
I awoke this morning and opened my shades. Outside there is a slight dusting of Spring snow, a cold crisp morning in the mountains, my daffodils peeking up from their long winter slumber, the robins busily building their new nest.
Looking out onto the field of tall pine trees behind my house, I see my father's 1984 Buick station wagon. It arrived last night from Hawaii.
It has made a long seaward journey, twice. He would have liked that, he often spoke about being on the "big ocean". As a child, he would tell me about the huge waves crashing against the side of the boat, making the boat bob up and down. How terribly seasick he got, and yet, how being on the ocean was an adventure for him that he never forgot.
His eyes would light up when he told me about being on the deck at night, and how small he felt against a backdrop of shooting stars and moving planets.
My dad would be pleased that his car made this journey. My dad's life was spent in cars. As a chauffeur, his car was his office.
As I gaze outside and look closely at it, the same car that he was so proud of, that he spent so much of his life cleaning and polishing, I can almost see him there in the driver's seat.
He is wearing his dark blue pin-striped suit, with a tie that I sewed for him in high school,
It doesn't quite match, but he is proud to wear anyway. His hair is neatly combed to one side. I can still remember the smell of the pomade that he used. I recall how his after shave lingered in the air as he walked down the hallway in the morning, whistling on his way to work. His Buick waiting there for him, like a good friend.
He traveled a lot, sometimes being gone for days at a time. I always remember running into his arms after he had returned. He would lift me high up in the air, kiss me and say "your daddy is home now". I would always ask him what he had brought back from his travels for me. There was usually a chocolate bar, or a small piece of jewelry that he had carried back with him. He would open my hand and place the gift inside it.
It was always a comfort to me that he had returned home after a long journey.
Now he is home, but he is not here.
The gift he has brought back this time are the memories of our time together,
The immense joy he brought into my life, the precious moments that were spent filled with laughter and tenderness. It is the best gift he has ever brought me.,
These are the memories that will never fade with time, like the paint on his old Buick. They are deep, timeless, etched into my being, like the small creases of his car. They remain very much alive within me.
The sun is peeking out from behind a cloud, almost as if he were saying hello from heaven, smiling down, with his pipe in hand, saying to me "your daddy is home".
Looking out onto the field of tall pine trees behind my house, I see my father's 1984 Buick station wagon. It arrived last night from Hawaii.
It has made a long seaward journey, twice. He would have liked that, he often spoke about being on the "big ocean". As a child, he would tell me about the huge waves crashing against the side of the boat, making the boat bob up and down. How terribly seasick he got, and yet, how being on the ocean was an adventure for him that he never forgot.
His eyes would light up when he told me about being on the deck at night, and how small he felt against a backdrop of shooting stars and moving planets.
My dad would be pleased that his car made this journey. My dad's life was spent in cars. As a chauffeur, his car was his office.
As I gaze outside and look closely at it, the same car that he was so proud of, that he spent so much of his life cleaning and polishing, I can almost see him there in the driver's seat.
He is wearing his dark blue pin-striped suit, with a tie that I sewed for him in high school,
It doesn't quite match, but he is proud to wear anyway. His hair is neatly combed to one side. I can still remember the smell of the pomade that he used. I recall how his after shave lingered in the air as he walked down the hallway in the morning, whistling on his way to work. His Buick waiting there for him, like a good friend.
He traveled a lot, sometimes being gone for days at a time. I always remember running into his arms after he had returned. He would lift me high up in the air, kiss me and say "your daddy is home now". I would always ask him what he had brought back from his travels for me. There was usually a chocolate bar, or a small piece of jewelry that he had carried back with him. He would open my hand and place the gift inside it.
It was always a comfort to me that he had returned home after a long journey.
Now he is home, but he is not here.
The gift he has brought back this time are the memories of our time together,
The immense joy he brought into my life, the precious moments that were spent filled with laughter and tenderness. It is the best gift he has ever brought me.,
These are the memories that will never fade with time, like the paint on his old Buick. They are deep, timeless, etched into my being, like the small creases of his car. They remain very much alive within me.
The sun is peeking out from behind a cloud, almost as if he were saying hello from heaven, smiling down, with his pipe in hand, saying to me "your daddy is home".
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