When Dad Came Home

Dad coming home.jpg

Skies like this one, painted in late afternoon make me think of my dad.  Just before the sun sinks behind the hill, I'm eight years old again. When the sky becomes swirls of cool blue mixed with the last of the day's sun, I'm in the house where I grew up.  I sat by the kitchen window, focusing my stare through three backyards until my eyes reached the main road.  I would bounce my knee, waiting for my dad's white Plymouth to slow down to make the right turn onto our street - Fleming Terrace Road - A street I lived on four decades ago.  But when I see this sky, all blurry, and orange with lines of dark trees, I can feel the vinyl covered chairs sticking to my legs.  I can hear Andy Griffith's whistle coming from the small black and white TV sitting on the counter.  The smell of mom's dinner warming on the stove. What I would give to rest my arms against that windowsill in Greensboro, North Carolina and wait for Daddy to come home from work.