Kate Carlson
World Lit. Honors
Tompkins 2
23 April, 2015
My Father’s Eyes
I could hear the gravel crunching as the jeep turned into the driveway. I had been sitting here for days, just waiting. I do this every sixth months. I wait. And every time he appears. My mom left over an hour ago, and I have been sitting by the window ever since. I glance at my phone to double check. Nope, still hasn’t lit up. We haven’t spoken in days, and I’m waiting for some sort of contact. I turn on the radio as I wait, an oldies station that my dad would like.
The curtains on the window are translucent, long white ones with a lacey, floral rim. I’m too small to pull them back, so I have to peer through them. The images are fuzzy, but I can see enough to confirm that the jeep just pulled up. The car door slams, a sound that makes me jump from my seat on the couch. There is a second slam, followed by a third, and then silence. I wait and lean forward slightly, shifting me ear towards the door so I can hear better.
Nothing.
And then, a crunch! I let out the breath that I didn’t realize I was holding and jump to my feet. Mom told me to wait until he came in the door, but I can’t anymore. We haven’t spoken in days. I can hear them talking, a sound muted through the solid oak door. His voice is quiet, so I have to concentrate to hear it. I know its him because of the defining rasp that comes with years of smoking, and the low chuckle sound he makes when he is happy.
I throw open the door and run down the stairs, without looking where I am going. I see something large and greenish-tan and focus on it, ignoring the hair whipping my face and the bitter chill of the cold December air. The object is nearing, and as I get close enough, I jump. He catches me mid-jump and spins me around. Neither of us says anything as we stand there, his body strong and warm next to mine. One of his arms is wrapped around my back, and the other underneath me, allowing me to cling to him.
I don’t ever want to let go.
He puts me down slowly, and extends his hand. This is a task he does with a flourish, flicking his wrist a little in the process. “May I have this dance, princess?”
“Certainly.”
I take his hand in mine. His large hands envelope mine, their strong warmth heating my popsicle fingers like a glove. They feel calloused and rough, like he spent the last sixth months transporting heavy loads. I try not to think of what he was doing while he was away. He never talks about it with me, but I know its important.
His other large hand falls on my shoulder, and then we are off! We waltz across the driveway, up the stairs, and into the living room. An Eric Clapton song is on the radio, slow and beautiful. My dad pulls me in for a hug as we slow dance in the living room to the sound of a steel guitar and Eric Clapton’s raspy, emotional voice. I always check my dad over for damage, scanning his strong, defined face for scars or marks. He never fails to return tanner than when he left, but his blonde hair thinner.
I already know to expect the small scar on the side of his forehead, because he told me about it in one of his letters. Every week when he is gone, I run into the mailbox to check and see if that thick, yellow parchment is sitting there. He never fails to write to me, leaving me long letters and the pages are always filled with blue writing, in his characteristic slant.
He must have taken his hat off in the car, but he is still wearing his uniform. It looks good on him and it makes him look tall. His sheer strength is evident, and though his buzz cut is intimidating, it makes him look handsome.
The other guys look just like him. They come over to the house sometimes, always polite to my mom and me, but slightly distant. There is always beer and chips, and it usually involves a football game. As they leave, the men shake hands, and then grab their necklaces. I see it every time. None of them will take their necklace off, and neither does my dad. I don’t know what it means, but I don’t want to think about them now.
We dance around the living room, a fancy waltz step that only my dad knows. I stand on his feet as we waltz, knowing that my little ones won’t hurt his that are covered in the black boot with a sole as thick as my fist. He starts singing to me now, and that is when I realize how much I’ve missed him. His voice is scratchy, a weathered sound, unmistakable, even in a room filled with people.
As we glide around the room, he stares into the distance. “Praying for the healing rain. To restore my soul again” he sings. We continue to float around the living room. Together we dance as he sings, “How did I get here?
What have I done?
When will all my hopes arise?
How will I know him?”
I know this next line by heart. I stare up at my strong father’s face, him looking battered and brave. My little heart swells with pride, and I sing back, “When I look in my father's eyes.”
