by Sparks In Shadow

1960 Chevy Impala by skeggy via Flickr


Daddy’s eyes opened after Mama’s push, reflecting movie light. She’d only wake him if he snored. Jimmy and I’d tell what he’d missed on the drive home. Sometimes he’d let us. Sometimes he’d yell.

Mama took us to the movies by bus. Sometimes at night Daddy would say, “Let’s go.” Even if westerns played, he’d fall asleep.

This time as we left the theater, he seemed awake but dazed and silent, turning corners, crossing streets. Finally, Mama asked if he couldn’t find the car.

Daddy stopped, hands in his pockets, keys jangling. Then he pivoted left and opened her door.

This was written from the prompt, “Dad” – from Lisa.