Pila

This is one in a series of vignettes about a girl named Alberta and her relationship with her family.

His car smelled of pine and old newspapers. As I walked towards the brown rusty door, looking forward to the obnoxious heat in his car, a wind gently pushed the pink barrettes of my hair. He always walked a little in front of me, with his hands in his black nylon jacket. His light footsteps took his right hand out of his pocket, pulling out a metal key with a black plastic casing. The cuticle on his right thumb was of snow, a flake that hit an onyx stone. The knuckles of his hands were experienced; they knew what it was like to walk around a steering wheel, and they knew what it was like to empathize with one who missed the bus. They were the epitome of empathy and flaw. Cracked, white with splotches of brown, but they understood struggle The day those knuckles made love to petroleum jelly will be the day my father has left me for cleanliness and luxury.

He opened the door to his driver seat. I pulled the metal handle of the other door, but it was still locked. I looked at him through the window and he held his hand up for about three seconds. I saw the engraved brown lines in his hands. As soon as I heard a click sound I opened the door and entered. His car was warm as always. He reached his hand toward the radio. There was dust in the cassette space. I loved how he never cleaned that space. His index and thumb finger lightly squeezed and turned the "tuning" circle, I heard static, "GOOOOOOOL", news stations, and merengue. He decided to leave it on the merengue station. All you heard was La India's childlike voice, "Es un gran necio, un estúpido!" He looked at his side view mirror and fixed his cap, put his seatbelt on, and looked at me and chuckled. I gripped on the black crank below the handle; I would it to the right and wind made its way through my twists, sending chills to my scalp and bumps on the right side of my neck.

Looking through the windows of cars was always my favorite part. Whirling sounds and yoga sounds danced through my ear with rhythm. The green leaves of trees responded to the sound with the violent sways, enough to intimidate a jazz singer. I turned and stared at him, his eyes focused on the road, and his ear slowly moving up and down. I saw the things on the side of his jaw that always stung me every time he reached for a kiss. Those things were grey, black, short, and upright. They pushed against the smoothness of my check, causing comforting interruption. As I watched him, he asked, "How was school?" "Good," I replied. "Make sure you get 3's and 4's," he said. "Don't worry, I will," I responded with a smile.

Our conversations always moved in simplicity. Words flew out of our mouths and created ideas and thoughts that lacked complexity, but were bathed in feeling and thought. We shared words that definitely did not paint the room with an array of colors, but an array of honesty. There was not really much to say, and we appreciated that, and translated through blemished streams of words. He stopped the car and parked the "4" train station. We walked to the dentists, well, he walked, and I rode on his back. I wrapped my two hands around his neck that stung and tickled. The sun reflected off his black rectangular sunglasses. And before I knew it, the tonsils of my sandals touched the warm black concrete and he opened the door. A strong wind went through the upper halves of our bodies, cooling the water running down my underarm, and blowing the navy blue linen shift of my father's.