dead on arrival

I arrived at the airport in Manchester, NH last Saturday after what felt like an eight hour plane ride, and rushed like cold air from a fire to the curbside pickup. Half an hour later my dad’s girlfriend pulled up to get me with a bag of granola and an Evian water bottle. The car smelt like potpourri and I forced myself towards polite conversation. It took about forty-five minutes before I could stop using my smile to form some sort of comfort in our interaction. I sat in the clam shack for an hour and thought about the war it had taken my dad to gain residency in this building.




Finally he is able to use a piece of history to continue his, and provide for us. While the only shower we can use is still 3 miles down the road inside the local gym, it’s a place to sleep and keep warm and even holds space to store a few different types of alcohol in the mini fridge.
Whenever I see my dad, which continues to amount to two to three times a year, it usually goes one of two ways.



The way I prefer to visit him is in a belly-full-of-wine state, happy and sarcastic, hungry and laughing; somewhat similar to Santa Clause with humor too vulgar for a nine year old. When he’s like this, it makes things a lot easier for me. The conversation creates bullets that are dodge-able and most of our car rides consist of the Beatles and a significant close in our father-daughter generation gap.



This trip went the other way.

aside from verbally, i did however, get my graffiti.