by Chris Fabry
I had my first sleepover with Jennifer at the end of July. It took me a long time to work on Mamaw because she liked to have me close to her almost all the time. Jennifer’s mama made us s’mores and let us sleep in a tent just out the back door and watch a movie on a TV we plugged into an extension cord at the side of the house. After Jennifer went to sleep and it was quiet, I crawled out and looked up at the stars and picked out the Big Dipper. Dad had taught me to do that.
They lived next to the interstate, and I heard the rush of semis going past and the whir of tires. I closed my eyes and it took me back to those days on the road. There’s something about living in a house that’s cozy and warm that you don’t get in living out of an RV. But I guess if you’re with people you love, it doesn’t matter where you live.
I’ve seen some pictures of my mama, but I’ve never met her. Mamaw says she doesn’t think she’ll ever come back, but I wish she would. I’d like to see her and get to talk with her and ask her dumb questions.
I don’t see his dad, Mr. Johnson, much. He doesn’t have to drive somebody else’s truck because he has a new one. And Papaw said his mortgage is paid off, and I think that would make my dad happy to know.
Mamaw and Papaw take me to the big brick church, and I have this Sunday school teacher who asks me to read the verses each week because the other kids stumble over the words. The pastor is a good friend now, and he said he would baptize me when I’m ready.
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Not a day goes by that I don’t think about him. I’ll see an old truck pass with an arm out the window and my heart will quicken. Or in some Walmart parking lot I’ll see an RV with worn tires and curtains drawn and think of our life. Sometimes when I’m playing with Roma—that’s what I named my dog—I’ll look up at the water tower and think about what it would be like to see him sitting there looking down on me, laughing as I play or when I tie a string to a june bug and follow it around like he did.
He comes to me in my dreams and my dreams are never enough. I wonder if he’ll be in the audience when I’m in school and singing at a Christmas concert. I wonder if he’ll watch me graduate or get married. I don’t think that will ever happen, but if it does, I’d want him to be there and maybe walk me down the aisle.
At night sometimes, when I’m in bed and under the clean covers in the back bedroom, I’ll close my eyes and reach out a hand toward him. And I’ll wonder if he ever does the same for me.
I wonder what made him such a good father if he never had children. I wonder if he’s started a new life with Sheila. And I wonder if he’ll ever forget me. I don’t think he will because he said he wouldn’t. And he always kept his promises.
Some people know every little thing about themselves. Not me. And I don’t need to anymore.