Driving with Dad

"I wish my Dad could teach the boys to drive in the snow..."

The words were lost in the competing sounds of the busy conversation,

but I faded away with them,

staring out the window as the boathouses on the Schuylkill blurred past.

I was no longer in Philadelphia on a warm September day,

but on I-95 in the middle of 

a blizzard, 

the night, 

and New England.

That is the last solid memory I have 

of my Dad's incredible snow-driving prowess.

He was spectacular that night,

captaining the Cadillac that sailed through knee-deep powder

all the way up the coast,

ferrying my tiny babies and I 

(but not our luggage)

from the airport in Boston

to his and my mother's snug little home in mid-coast Maine.

That was a good one.

And I choke up a bit, from the backseat of my own car,

as my husband manuevers Philadelphia traffic,

so much more deftly than my Dad probably would have...

because I realize this might be the first time I've missed him

in the 2? 

3?

FOUR

years since he shuffled away from this page of his story

and onto the next.

Which is not to say I haven't grieved, 

haven't sobbed,

haven't wrestled with how it all 

went so wrong.

But today, 

I casually mentioned 

(like he was somewhere nearby,

like there was a chance)

that it would be great if he could teach my kids to drive in the snow.

Those tiny babies from all those years ago,

would dwarf him now.

They could have learned so much from him.

I could have...

But here we are.

And maybe I did.

And maybe I can teach, 

or have already taught, 

what I learned from him.

But not how to drive in the snow like a pro.

Not how to haul lobster traps from the ocean

or change oil - spark plugs - belts

or chop wood efficiently

or savor the taste of Postum...

I remember tracking some down on the internet,

several years after they quit making it.

I guess I showed him I loved him once, at least.