A black and white picture of my Dad lives on my nightstand in a rounded, chocolate frame. I look like him. We have the same facial shape, nose, expression. The picture contains snapshots of memories, fragments of a quilt I hold onto.
Dad just got home from work and my brother and I jump on him. He’s just as excited as we are, and he sings and plays the drums on our stomachs, singing Daaay-o, Daaaaay-o, Daylight come and me want to go home. We giggle wildly in innocent happiness. He was home.
Dad coaches our soccer team the first and only time we got purple jerseys. I knew he didn’t like that I crimped my hair for the team pictures, but he told me I was beautiful
We are walking down North Myrtle to the boardwalk arcade. Dad plays skee ball and winks as he gives me his tickets. I get enough for another animal made out of small shells and colored string. This beach trip, I got a red fish, which I displayed alongside a pink cat, purple elephant and blue turtle.
I’m riding shotgun in Dad’s gray 1980something Nissan Maxima. I recall three tapes: Paul Simon, Steve Miller Band, and James Taylor. We scream “Cecilia” like we are competing with millions of fans at a concert. Every time. I played the entire Steve Miller Band tape without fast-forwarding and, as picky as I was, (ok, still am) it made Dad smile. His favorite was James Taylor. He knew all the words. I pretended I did.
There are many more memories threaded into my father’s quilt. Each one is a piece of both of us—each one attached to a game, a song, a color, a feeling, and a look only a 10 year old could remember and recreate so exactly.
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