Magazine, website & books written by teens since 1989

Dad's Home This work has been published in the Teen Ink monthly print magazine.

By
   "Click," called out the car door as it joined ithe doorjamb the way a seat belt joins its buckle. That was the sound I had been waiting for all week. My dad was finally home from his business trip. I despised those trips, especially when he was gone an entire week, but I guess he really has to go. When he is away, our family link is broken.

Today is Friday, a rainy, dank and dreary one to be exact. All afternoon I had nothing to do. The computer games were tiresome and boring, my brother wasn't home, and my mother was reading her stupid old school committee packet of material for her meeting. The only thing of interest was the scrumptious dinner she was cooking. Yearning for my dad to come home didn't help at all. But now he was home, and as instantaneously as a light bulb goes on, I felt better and our family ties were reconnected.

I raced to the top of our basement steps, but I wasn't the first there. Biscuit was. All she does when my dad arrives home is bark, bark, bark the way a hound does chasing after a rabbit. Our fluorescent basement lights flickered on and my Dad entered with his black and brown garment bag bulging with a week's worth of shirts and suits. "Hi," I called. Our family isn't big on greetings, usually a tight hug is it, or on occasion a mushy, gushy kiss leaving a slimy red lipstick mark on my face when my grandparents come over, but that's about it.

"Hello, big guy," he answered. Those words drifted on the cylinders of air spinning tornado style, and raced forward to my eardrum. I do not know why, but those three measly words were special; they had lots of meaning. They vibrated dignity and love. They spoke about how I'm my dad's oldest, his first born, his first pride. Warmth and happiness enveloped me as if I had been accepted to Harvard or had won the Newbury medal. I felt as if I was the only existing son and the only one who meant anything to anyone, especially my father. Those words told me I should be proud to be his son and I certainly was.

My dad's heavy footsteps clunked up the steps, finally reaching the top. I stepped back, giving him space to put his luggage down. In my mind this signaled that it was time to hug him. Without hesitation, I closed the gap of the foot between us and grabbed hold of him, my arms wrapping around him. He enclosed me, with his muscular arms squeezing my stomach and pulling me closer to him, causing the buttons on his sports coat to dig uncomfortably into my chest. But I didn't mind because he was home now. n


This work has been published in the Teen Ink monthly print magazine. This piece has been published in Teen Ink’s monthly print magazine.






Post a Comment

Be the first to comment on this article!

bRealTime banner ad on the left side
Site Feedback