The day after Christmas always begins with an early flight to Chicago, a drive to my dad’s hometown of Racine, and ends with a dinner filled with the aroma of the welcoming, crispy, dangerously delicious, thin cheese pizza of Wells Brothers. The air is always sharp. It’s the kind of air that makes your toes go numb, the furious winds never hold back, and my dad always, always forgets to wear a heavier coat.
My dad opens the rental car door, first dusting off the powdered snow that had fallen the night before. I begin to help him, but he swats me away with his selfless dis- position. Without hesitation, I turn on the heat as I run in place, trying to generate any sort of heat myself. He then moves to put our suitcases in the trunk, as the colorless sky slowly begins to awake from its slumber. I scurry into the passenger seat, as my dad sits beside me, eagerly trying to get out of the Chicago airport, as the bustle of the holidays will soon erupt around us.
“Any music suggestions?” I ask, grabbing chapstick from my bag.
“Your pick,” he responds, checking the exits carefully as he gets onto the highway.
I open my phone playing “Tempted by the Fruit of Another,” my dad’s favorite song. He swears it was his college anthem. It may be the only Squeeze song I know, but I know all the lyrics. As the beat begins to intensify, my dad taps his foot by the pedals, and drums on the steering wheel.
“Hands-on the wheel!” I exclaim as he laughs, ignoring my paranoia.
My dad stares out the window, with a soft gaze, as he quietly sings the lyrics. He sits up straight and tilts his neck to both sides, cracking any knots. He is wearing a fairly lightweight black knit sweater, a white shirt poking out underneath, and dark washed blue jeans with a few patches that stick out like a sore thumb. He wears black converse that he had just gotten for Christmas the day before, still fresh and pure, but he is still not used to them. He has a small bandaid on his chin from shaving, and his clear acrylic glasses have begun to slide down his nose. He’s waiting for them to slide far enough until he has to fix them. He continues to drum his hands, changing to a one-hand electric guitar when necessary.
“That’s my old high school!” my dad says, pointing his finger as we begin to enter his hometown of Racine, Wisconsin. The building is burnt auburn brick, fairly large, with the words St. Catherine’s proudly displayed at the top. He grins slightly, reflecting on the school, pulling over to the side of the road. We sit in silence for a moment, but not realizing it. You can still feel the bitterness of the cold from inside the car and see the wind sweep down the street. I look over to my dad, as he takes a few more seconds to take it in that he’s home, a home he hasn’t called home in so long.