- sitting in a bright blue pickup truck parked under a tree for shade because the inside gets so hot the seats stick to my thighs, attaching to them like a second polyester skin, with Marty Robbins in the cassette deck replaying the same song over and over and rusted pliers and bits of PVC fill the floorspace and clang against my feet as i swing my legs back and forth just too short from them to rest on the the black plastic floormats windows cranked down by hand with my fingers stained a dusty red from spending all day playing magician outside, carving sigils in carolina clay
- digimon on saturday mornings, we crawled into bed with him, he had a tv in his room and a king sized bed, so we could watch together, a family. i cannot remember what we had for breakfast those mornings, only the words to the theme song.
- holding a flashlight over a hole in the ground, watching water flow through a pipe with a hole. i never took to plumbing, only firefly hunting in the customer’s yard.
- no one else helps him make thanksgiving. we make the turkey, dissemble its body and refill it with premade stuffing. changing every year. even once other bodies of birds. he lets me make the greenbean casserole, sprinkle fried onion bits across the top. we watch the parade and football, television always on. make gravy from a jar and eat at least two pies, two different flavors. i am partial to the pumpkin. one year we have key lime. each year we break the wishbone. he always lets me make the wish.
- i am 23 and eating rosemary and sea salt bread from the food pantry, it is a week past its expiration date but he always said those dates were arbitrary and kept cans in his pantry ten years past theirs just in case, never knowing when the world will end. he grows a garden in the backyard in a plot as long as i am tall, but never any herbs, never any rosemary, only tall corn that peaks over the edges of the fence and tomato plants and purple bell peppers i don’t think actually exist. i call him. we still talk every week.
NaPoWriMo Day 11: Where are you from? Not just geographically, but emotionally, physically, spiritually? Maybe you are from Vikings and the sea and diet coke and angry gulls in parking lots. Maybe you are from gentle hills and angry mothers and dust disappearing down an unpaved road. And having come from there, where are you now?)
I chose to write about growing up with my dad, as he was so influential into who i became today that I felt it fit the prompt.