Dad has always been the easiest to talk to

October 13, 2011
        When Dad comes home from work early, I’m surprised. Mom isn’t home from visiting teaching yet and I’m in the middle of a bowl of top ramen. He grins as he takes a seat at the table.

“Do you want to go to Coldstone?”

Secret ice cream trips with Dad are nothing new. I finish slurping my noodles.

“Um, do you even have to ask?”

His grin widens. “Do you want to walk there?”

It’s 5 pm. I am exhausted from swim and I still have an essay to write. But I can’t disappoint the enthusiasm in his eyes that is making a rare appearance.

“It’s what—two miles?”

“Two and a half.”

“And we won’t get shot for being out after dark?”

Salinas isn’t exactly the safest place to walk around at night. Especially for white people, and we are as white as it gets.

Dad makes a face at me. “Don’t wear any gang colors.”

So we set out. It’s different than the determined pace we kept when we hiked the Grand Canyon. But it’s not the stifling pauses, standing in front of display after display while grocery shopping with him either. We set an easy pace that matches the conversation and we just walk.

We admire the sun setting and make it to Coldstone just as it dips below the horizon. Dad gets a German chocolate creation and I get my usual—cake batter ice cream with peanut butter cups and caramel.

        The second we finish our ice cream, we call Mom for a ride home, too exhausted and full of ice cream to take another step.