Daybreak

Although I am thankful that I got to know my father better over the course of the last 25 years than I did in the 25 years before it, there was not nearly enough time. Not when life as his child began with a cavernous deficit.

A sweet memory of us on Leavenworth Street. Little brother and me, standing on his feet, holding on to his legs, all of us laughing like mad. More recollections.... His white piano, and ice cream cones from Swenson's on Hyde and Union after washing the car. One night, bathing with brother while the parents yelled at each other down the hallway. That bathwater was pretty cold when they remembered us. Eventually, there was the trip to SFO in summer 1965. I sat behind him, watching his hands steer us along the Bayshore Freeway. Away from all I knew. I loved to watch my father drive, even when he dropped the occasional F-bomb. Nobody annunciated like he did, even when the words were less than savory.

I don't remember saying goodbye at the airport or anything about our flight to Chicago, then Milwaukee, where we were picked up and whisked away for a month at Lake Winnebago with my mother and her family.

All I remember about our last day as a family is watching my father's hands on that big steering wheel.