Daddy

I love seeing my daddy’s 1973 International truck drive up the lane after his long day at work. I see him coming a mile off because his truck is bright orange. It looks like a pumpkin driving down the road. He bought it brand spanking new from crooked Ed down at the east end of town.

Sometimes when he comes home he tells me to go hop in the truck. These days with my dad are heaven ‘cause I get him all to myself. “Where we going daddy?” I ask, so excited I can hardly stand it. “You have to wait and see,” he says casually with that crooked grin on his face.

I beat him to the truck and wait for him by the driver’s side door. He opens it for me so I can sit beside him on the black bench seat with the “four on the floor” gear shift right in front of me. The cab smells like gas and grease. If I ever made a perfume, that’s what it would smell like. We head down the lane and he lets me do the shifting. He says I’m getting really good at it, even though I grind the gears.

When I am with daddy, I am safe. I am his best little girl and he is my great big protector. He loves me the most out of everyone, I’m sure of it. I stare at his calloused face and say, “I love you daddy.” He smiles his, goofy, crooked smile back and says, “I know honey, you can’t help it.”