The Last Night I Saw My Dad

In his 30s, dad while serving time at Islas Marias Federal Prison in Mexico.

Mom

My mom left dad when I was five years old. During the weeks leading up to her decision, she thought of every possible excuse to stay, but there was a way out of every single one. Now and then mom opens up about the things that she considered. She feared not being able to raise two kids on her own. My sister was born without her left leg and caring for her would be difficult. She also thought about how much my sister and I would miss dad, me in particular—I was his favorite.

Once decided, mom had to figure out a way to leave without raising the suspicion that we would not be coming back. She packed all of our clothes in boxes and had them shipped to my aunt in Ensenada a few days before we left.

The next step in her plan was to pack wood and a few rocks in empty boxes and stack them neatly inside the closet. The purpose was to give my dad the impression that we were coming back and that she was merely making sure our clothesmwould be neatly waiting for us upon our return. Mom had had enough. Dad cheated on her, abused her (verbally, physically, and sexually). Mom was ready to leave.

Dad

Dad drove us to the bus station. While we waited to board the bus, dad kept me close to him. I remember his calloused hand holding mine, the feeling of not wanting to let go of him, and the tender way he put his arm around my shoulders more thank usual. I thought he had figured out somehow, and that he knew we weren’t coming back.

Just as we boarded the bus, he knelt beside me and kissed me on my cheek. The prickly feeling of his mustache against my cheek felt unfamiliar, yet the strong smell of wood, and cigarrets smelled like home. He tightened his grip on my hand and whispered:

I am going to follow the bus for as long as I can, be on the look out for me.

Me

Those were the last words he said to me. That’s how he said good-bye. On the bus, mom didn’t say much, but she held my hand the entire drive. As the bus got on the road, I kept looking out the window for dad’s blue El Camino with the dirty white camper. A minute or so later, I saw his car cut in front of us. To me, it was as if he were talking to me, and that image was engraved in my memory. I stared at his car through the window, afraid to look away for fear that I might lose him. Some short distance later, I saw dad’s car make a right turn, but the bus that we were on kept on going straight.

As the years went by and I got older, I always yearned to let him know that I had seen his car that night, just like he said I would, and that it had meant so much to me, and that I loved him.

My dad passed away ten years ago today. In a lot of ways I feel like I am still that boy looking out the window of a bus just waiting for him to show up. I still miss him.