Stee NaS, We are driving down highway no. 2, my father and I. Six lanes separated by a flat expanse of brown, cold grass partially encrusted in dirty white snow. The sound of my father’s worn out pick-up drones underneath us providing a suitable accompaniment to the trip. I sneak a glance across the torn vinyl seat hesitant to witness the mirror that has so suddenly been thrust in my face. Bent towards the wheel, his thin whit hair glows green in the steady light of the dashboard. His long face _is both intent upon and removed from his task— carting his eldest child to the airport and eventually back home. The thin mouth is set in a slight grin and the eyes shine dimly from within, gray as the full moon’s winter light. I’ve been staring. Self-conscious I deflect attention even thought I know he hasn’t noticed. “Dad, you’re passing everything in sight,” Isay. “I wanna get there is one piece.” “[m not driving fast. They’re just driving too slow,” he replies, the last two words dropping heavily from his mouth. Then he laughs. Dry, full with a sharp wheezing breath. His slim body bounces lightly for a moment on the truck seat, it’s rhythm transferring across the uncluttered cab to my heavier frame. He settles in, large hand fixed to the steering wheel and stares back into the deep night descending from far above. My stay here was on part in spirit of the season and one part in spirit of a quest. Since I departed the homeland fourteen years age I’ve slowly been drawn into my history and that of my parent’s. I’ve learned that wshen my father travelled from the Ukraine to Canada at the age of nine, his uncle, my Grandfather’s Brother, took his family and fortune to Bolivia,. My Grandfather wrote his brother through the years but painful unwilling fingers formed a slow loss in contact. With his death channel silently closed. Distant dreams and realities ended. Bolivia was just another country. This November my youngest sister sent me copies of old family pictures. A lot of faded black and white shots taken with the family Brownie Instamatic. us on the old farm, dwarfed by the clear, unbroken sky. Vacation shots, our bodies all lined up in a neat row, teeth flashing, scenes interchanging across the background. As I flipped through the glossy stack, images I’d never seen before stared out from my warm hands. My mother and father young and eager with other fresh faces, or leaning against ancient gleaming fenders. Mom in her wedding dress and Dad in a sharp, flat suit. Both looking glassy eyes. I glanced at the date printed in simple, bold script along one of the thick serrated white edges. It struck an odd note. I did a little arithmetic and it hit me low in the belly. Now I know why they were married. And so the first born undertook this journey, carrying small affordable presents and a special box waiting to be opened. A box of why’s and when’s and what if’s A box carrying grey clouds, stretching across the horizon, obscuring my existence. I might have felt more comfortable talking to my mother, but since their bitter divorce she’s found a new freedom and is trying to make up for hours of dish washing, and handing our lessons in life with a wooden spoon. This time she’s doing it in Vegas with “a bunch of friends.” Toss a few chips down for me Mom. That leaves me with Dad. His life now regular and routine, he fidgets away in the old empty house and digs around corners of the garden. Silent and quiet he enjoys retirement—a big wide worn old quilt that he has slowly _ woven. This short haul to the outskirts of the city is all. that is left for me. ‘I’ve deliberately avoided my quest. Get togethers wit too much eating in rooms too soft and warm filled with murmurs of conversation and television lulled my senses. It provided a convenient excuse to leave the quilt where it is. I grind my teeth and glance out the window at single lights floating out in the thin landscape. How do you start digging back? How can I ask this man, my father, if I just happened to be? did they really care about one another, considering the end result, of did they just do the right thing? Did they fix the problem, or learn to become a family? To raise us in their image? Tires spin their constant tune. The terminal glows unsteadily on the horizon to the right. Passing by the lights lining the airport exit a steady, cool rhythm washes across my father’s face, my face. “Shit!” my father exclaims. I bounce out of my daydream, our turn-off slipping by. “I missed my exit...your exit. Should pay more attention to the road.” He fades off and scratches inadvert- ently at the stubble on his chin. “It’s O.K., Dad,” I say my heart racing from a sudden leap out of flat obscurity into sudden sharp reality. I say no more. Slick with a thin sweat I settle into my heavy jacket. and push the cold outside. The intersec- tion fades away. Ahead a large dark mass swallows us and we head our amongst the flickering lights. White candles in hope of journeys yet to come. S| ORY ten reoaing We are driving down highway no. 2, my father and I. Six lanes separated by a flat expanse of brown, cold grass partially encrusted in dirty white snow. The sound of my father’s worn out pick-up drones underneath us providing a suitable accompaniment to the trip. I sneak a glance across the torn vinyl seat hesitant to witness the mirror that has so suddenly been thrust in my face. Bent towards the wheel, his thin whit hair glows green in the steady light of the dashboard. His long face is both intent upon and removed from his task— carting his eldest child to the airport and eventually back home. The thin mouth is set in a slight grin and the eyes shine dimly from within, gray as the full moon’s winter light. I've been staring. Self-conscious I deflect attention even thought I know he hasn’t noticed. “Dad, you’re passing everything in sight,” I say. “I wanna get there is one piece.” “I'm not driving fast. They're just driving too slow,” he replies, the last two words dropping heavily from his mouth. Then he laughs. Dry, full with a sharp wheezing breath. His slim body bounces lightly for a moment on the truck seat, it’s rhythm transferring across the uncluttered cab to my heavier frame. He settles in, large hand fixed to the steering wheel and stares back into the deep night descending from far above. My stay here was on part in spirit of the season and one part in spirit of a quest. Since I departed the homeland fourteen years age I've slowly been drawn into my history and that of my parent's. I've learned that wshen my father travelled from the Ukraine to Canada at the age of nine, his uncle, my Grandfather’s Brother, took his family and fortune to Bolivia,. My Grandfather wrote his brother through the years but painful unwilling fingers formed a slow loss in contact. With his death channel silently closed. Distant dreams and realities ended. Bolivia was just another country. This November my youngest sister sent me copies of old family pictures. A lot of faded black and white shots taken with the family Brownie Instamatic. us on the old farm, dwarfed by the clear, unbroken sky. Vacation shots, our bodies all lined up in a neat row, teeth flashing, scenes interchanging across the background. As I flipped through the glossy stack, images I’d never seen before stared out from my warm hands. My mother and father young and eager with other fresh faces, or leaning against ancient gleaming fenders. Mom in her wedding dress and Dad in a sharp, flat suit. Both lookin g glassy eyes. I glanced at the date printed in simple, bold script along one of the thick serrated white edges. It struck an odd note. I did a little arithmetic and it hit me low in the belly. Now I know why they were married. And so the first born undertook this journey, carrying small affordable presents and a special box waiting to be opened. A box of why’s and when’s and what if's A box carrying grey clouds, stretching across the horizon, obscuring my existence. I might have felt more comfortable talking to my mother, but since their bitter divorce she’s found a new freedom and is trying to make up for hours of dish washing, and handing our lessons in life with a wooden spoon. This time she’s doing it in Vegas with “a bunch of friends.” Toss a few chips down for me Mom. That leaves me with Dad. His life now regular and routine, he fidgets away in the old empty house and digs around corners of the garden. Silent and quiet he enjoys retirement—a big wide worn old quilt that he has slowly woven. This short haul to the outskirts of the city is all. that is left for me. ‘I’ve deliberately avoided my quest. Get togethers wit too much eating in rooms too soft and warm filled with murmurs of conversation and television lulled my senses. It provided a convenient excuse to leave the quilt where it is. I grind my teeth and glance out the window at single lights floating out in the thin landscape. How do you start digging back? How can I ask this man, my father, if I just happened to be? did they really care about one another, considering the end result, of did they just do the right thing? Did they fix the problem, or learn to become a family? To raise us in their image? Tires spin their constant tune. The terminal glows unsteadily on the horizon to the right. Passing by the lights lining the airport exit a steady, cool rhythm washes across my father’s face, my face. “Shit!” my father exclaims. I bounce out of my daydream, our turn-off slipping by. “[ missed my exit...your exit. Should pay more attention to the road.” He fades off and scratches inadvert- ently at the stubble on his chin. “It’s O.K., Dad,” I say my heart racing from a sudden leap out of flat obscurity into sudden sharp reality. Isay no more. Slick with a thin sweat I settle into my heavy jacket and push the cold outside. The intersec- tion fades away. Ahead a large dark mass swallows us and we head our amongst the flickering lights. White candles in hope of journeys yet to come.