My Dad's Truck

     In writing class this last week, we worked on using descriptions that trigger the senses. As we went through the discussion on it an idea occurred to me on how I could write about my dad. I haven't written about him since he died. I always felt like those emotions were too huge to try to put down without it sounding odd.
     Anyway, I wrote it down. It came out better than I could have hoped, but still it barely touches the true extent of my feelings. I figure though, it is a start. Writing is one way I work through how I feel about things. To try to explain it helps me understand it better. Someday, I hope to write a post about my dad, but for now, I hope you get a sense of him through this.

Dad's Truck

      Sometimes, I get to drive my dad’s truck. As I step up high into it, I think of walking with him. My steps had to be quicker and bigger than comfortable to keep up. Then, I lean back in the seat and my father’s scent fill’s my mind. I am taken back to pressing my cheek against his chest when we would dance. He smelled of zest soap and brutt cologne. I pull the seat belt around me and at the click I remember his hand firmly pressed to my back as we would start to dance. I always felt safe in following his lead. Sure he would guide me well. As I begin to drive the truck rocks and sways as only large vehicles and large men can. And we are waltzing across the dance floor carefully keeping time with the music. The truck warms me quickly on this cold night and his warm embrace reassured me then. As we danced he would talk of happy, simple things and the radio plays to me now; those songs he loved of a happier, simpler time.