passenger seat

he's a pulpit preacher. he slaps bibles and reaches out to shake an entire congregation's hands every sunday morning and it is clear by that alone just how far apart our two worlds reside. most of our conversations could follow a checklist they are so surface level and predicted, for in our opposing worlds ignorance is more blissful than the collisions they could create. often when we visit one another he is so consumed with thoughts of his next sermon or church obligation that all other tangibles seem to whiz right by unnoticed.

sometimes though, on his way home alone in his car, he will call me because he says he was just thinking about me. he will ask me about my day and it is then that he isn't a preacher anymore, he's my daddy. in those moments he's the silly, affectionate man that i remember would play tricks on me while we were driving to the store, me his little co-pilot in the passenger seat. i would be looking out the window lost in my own thought and imagination and out of nowhere as an oncoming car began to pass by he would grab my hand, hold it up in the air, and shake it wildly as if i were waving to the car myself. i'd follow that up with a "daaaadddy!", crossing my arms in fake irriation, but i loved every second of it. even now at 29 years old, a slightly older co-pilot, i sit in anticipation waiting for him to grab my hand to wave it, and he will gladly oblige. we'll both chuckle emphatically as if i'm still six years old and falling for it for the first time, and as if it's still the best trick in the book.

this is how i know that regardless of the number of sermons he gives, or the number i don't attend, he'll always be my daddy and i'll always be the little girl in that passenger seat.