To My Dad.

             I remember it as clearly as the crisp winter air that I breathed in that morning. I had a bit of a runny nose, and I had that lazy feeling you get in your bones when you just want to lie in bed for five more minutes, and those five minutes seem to evolve into five hours. Five hours of warm, groggy bliss. But dad wasn't having it. He hollered up the stairs, "Francisco, time to get up!" and when I hadn't replied with so much as a grunt, I heard his heavy footsteps clambering up the carpeted stairs and making their way to my room. With a hasty jerk of the covers, I was face to face with him, and he stood there with a stern look on his face, though I could see the warmth in his eyes, and that told me it was just one of his authoritarian facades meant to get me out of bed pronto. He was a tall, redoubtable man, standing at about six feet tall, although at six years old it seemed more like 10 feet tall. "Hurry up and get ready, you've still got breakfast to eat and there's only 20 minutes left!" I glanced over at the clock. Eight o' clock already? Why couldn't the time blaze by like that when I was taking a test, or listening to a lecture? I hurriedly made my way to my closet, and pulled out the warmest sweater I could get my hands on. My dad then made me take off the sweater and forced a thermal onto me. "I don't want that runny nose turning into something nastier," he told me, and I suppose he was right. I then proceeded to slip on my pair of well worn long johns, the ones that were starting to get a bit short in the leg. It didn't matter to me, though. I just slipped on a pair of extra long socks to compensate for the skin that the long johns couldn't cover. I didn't want to tell dad I was outgrowing them, because I knew money was tight and that he couldn't really get much work done in the winter, being a landscaper and all. Maybe in the spring I'd let him know, although I doubt I'd really need them by then anyway.
           As I made my way into the kitchen, the smell of sizzling eggs and chorizo greeted my nostrils, which was the norm in any portuguese household, along with red wine and cod fish. I plopped down on the cushy yet creaky seat and my dad poured me a generous helping of the delectable yellow fluff. "Come on, shovel it down, you've got to get going." My fork and knife suddenly became my hands, an extension of my body if you will, and in mere minutes the eggs and sausage were sitting in my stomach, only increasing the comforting drowsiness that normally accompanies such meals. I looked up at dad, and he was already grabbing my coat and getting my arms into it. To me, he was the best father and mother one could ask for. He would always remind me of how much mom cared about me, about how she used to cradle me around like her little plaything. When the cancer finally started overcoming the chemotherapy and radiation, she looked him in the eye and made him promise her that he'd always be there for Rita and I. He'd always tell me this story year after year, and it seemed like every year it resonated with me more. You don't feel the pain and loneliness until you start seeing all the other boys and girls with their mothers, coddling them and making them special lunches, or providing them with that warmth that only a mother could provide. My dad's hands were weathered and calloused, a stark contrast to the love and affection he provided me and my sister with. He couldn't always be there for us because of work, so I started regarding the winter as my chilly ally, obligating my dad to stop working for two or three months, allowing me to see him everyday instead of my boring old godmother.
         I ran down the stairs, taking them two or three at a time and even jumping down whole flights. "What have I told you about jumping those stairs?" he shouted. "You're going to wake the people on the first floor up!" His voice had elevated to that booming tone that I feared, and I immediately began descending one step at a time. Not everything about dad screamed "paternal." How could I fault him, though? He did the best any working class father with two kids would do. I opened the back door up and instantly felt the frigid air slap me across the face, making me regret that I had forgotten my balaclava. I liked that balaclava, too. It was red and blue, and I always pretended I was Spiderman, sans the webswinging capabilities and super strength, of course. But when have you ever heard of a six year old grounded in reality? I was soaring past rooftops, flying faster than the snowflakes could fall. Gravity meant nothing! VROOM. The sudden roar of our old red Chevy truck abruptly snapped me back to the real world, and I was once again in my alabaster colored backyard in 1993. I struggled to climb in, my wet feet slipping and my short stature hindering me. I managed however, and once I was in, we sat there for a few minutes to let the old clunker heat up. Cha-Chunk, went the rusty old shifter, as my dad put her in reverse. Slowly the truck put-putted down the driveway, and we were off to school. Hooray?
         I was definitely not in the mood for learning math and english that day, but I kept quiet and enjoyed the few minutes that I had left in the truck, the heat from the vent washing over me like a delicious August breeze. I pressed my cheek up to the window, and it felt cold to the touch. Salt stains and fingerprints littered the glass, with streaks of melting snow cascading down its length. I sneaked a look over at dad, and he seemed to be pensively pondering something. I wondered what could possibly be on his mind? Work? Money? Me? I was only six after all, it didn't occur to me that there were probably a million things running through his head. Everything is black and white when you're a child. The red light we were sitting at then turned green, and I found myself sitting outside my school. The place that usually seemed so warm and inviting was now a menacing fortress, with razor sharp icicles waiting to fall on you and stab you with their ice cold numbness, assuming you could trudge your way through the unplowed tundra formerly known as the playground.
         Dad walked me up to the small portable next to the main building where my class was located. 1st graders still had no need to go to the main edifice, that was for the 2nd graders and up. He sharply rapped on the door, and after a moment, the not so likeable Ms. Sweeney opened up, with a phony smile that resembled a mime with an upset stomach. "Hello, Mr. Ribeiro," she said rather sourly, as if she had just won first place at a lemon eating contest, "Come in." My dad then kissed me, nodded curtly to Ms. Sweeney and began making his way back to his truck, his outline becoming more obscured by the flurries with each step he took. The heavy metal door closed with an ominous thud, and I began peeling off my many layers of clothes. "Hold on, Francisco," interjected Ms. Sweeney. "Where is your late slip? I assume you have one? If you don't, you have to go to the main building and get one." I stared at her, dumbfounded. A late slip? I was only five minutes late, not even. Why in the world would she make me go back out into that howling, ravenous wind? I tried protesting, but it didn't do me any good. Defeated, I put my gloves back on and reluctantly pushed the door open. I shuffled through the cold white powder, the arctic gales cruelly embracing me. The door to the main building was just a few more feet away from me, and yet it still seemed like miles. "Francisco?" I turned around. My dad was still outside of the school, in the process of getting back into his truck. "What are you doing back out here?" His voice reverberated throughout the otherwise dead air. Maybe his voice was bouncing off the innumerable snowflakes, or the icicles. He quickly ran back up the walkway, a look of concern etched into his face. "Ms. Sweeney said I had to get a late slip," I declared rather bluntly. The transition from concern to fury was so instantaneous that I would've sworn my father had interchangeable faces had I not witnessed it with my own eyes. "Come on." He grabbed my gloved hand and we walked brusquely back to the classroom door. This time there weren't sharp raps on the door so much as punches. Again we were met with Ms. Sweeney's beady eyed stare, and dad countered it with his look of burning contempt. Some of the ice definitely melted after that look. "How dare you make my son go back out into that freezing weather for a stupid late pass! What is wrong with you?" he bellowed, and I was simultaneously awed and relieved that I wasn't on the receiving end of this cacophony. Ms. Sweeney's normally pasty face was suddenly flushed with crimson, and if she were to stand in the middle of that snow covered playground you'd have spotted her from a mile away. "Excuse me? Your son was late, and when a student is late, that means-- "I don't CARE what that means, you do not send my son into this weather! Do you want him to get sicker, you stupid woman?!" My father had a fairly commanding grasp of english when he was incensed, even though you could clearly hear his thick portuguese accent throughout. "Mr. Ribeiro, there is no need for name calling--"Then don't send my damn son out into this cold, you cow!"
       Up until that point, I had never seen dad talk to anyone like that. It amazed me, really. Ms. Sweeney ended up apologizing profusely, and she never made me go out to get a late slip ever again. Not that I was really ever late that often anyway. After that, I revered my dad even more. There would be nights where my thoughts would drift back to that cold, dark morning, and each time it makes me realize just how much my father cared about me. Sometimes I wonder if mom was watching that day. I bet she'd be proud. Proud of the man who raised me with a tender heart and a sometimes rough hand. Proud of the man that shed so much blood and sweat to put dinner on the table. I tend to not believe in such things as the afterlife, but there are times when a life-altering experience changes your perspective, even if that perspective only changes for a few moments. And at this moment, I'm sure they're both up there, watching over me, and making sure I put the right foot forward, so that I don't get lost in life.

    Because life? Life can be one hell of a snowstorm.

Author's Note

To a man who was my father, mother, mentor, and everything in between. 58 was much too soon, and 2009 is a year that will make me shudder forever.

Reviews

[Sir Altitude]

I do tend to remember things, haha....

[ScarlettTheDreamer]

A wonderful tribute to someone who meant the world! I'm sure they'll be super proud. And you have an amazing memory I see :)