The blacktop

Every night my dad would get out of the car that carried him and three other men to and from the railroad depot. He’d see me running his way and wave and then put up his hand to tell me not to cross the blacktop road.

I remember he would sometimes wear a tie that looked to me like it had black and silver moons and I remember how tall he seemed when he was walking toward me. I remember those things and how he changed from daddy to dad and I remember that his hair was dark brown, almost black, and I remember that was how I still saw him even when he laid there in the hospital dying almost fifty years later. He laid there slipping in and out of consciousness and when he would smile at me I waited for his hand to go up to tell me not to cross the blacktop.

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