Blue Is The Orangest Color

I drove into Vancouver from LA in time to have a late dinner with mom on the West Side before knocking out on her couch.

I awoke at 3am looking out the window at the maple trees, the ocean, the mountains, and the West End where dad lives. I left quietly, plunging into the warm night.

Pools of light were everywhere; light bulbs in glass boxes threw patterns upon the front of the building. String lights drooped from the balcony above. The chrome of my old Benz looked gold in the orange light. When I cranked her over a flock of birds exploded from a tree, their silhouettes batlike in the sodium vapor street lamps.

I coasted down Cornwall, the windows down, buildings and trees sliding by. The air was floral, nostalgic, my memory capsules expanding into spongelike dinosaurs grazing upon my consciousness. I ran the amber light.

Racing along the bridge between mom’s and dad’s, I felt like I was in the center of my life after so many years at the edges. Like the bridge was lit by candles. But when I swung into the West End, the wide open night tapered towards my father.

He was sitting out front of his building, underneath the dim overhead. He greeted me boisterously before strutting over to the car, popping the hood. It wasn’t staying up however so he refitted the hood spring. Then, he unscrewed the fusebox I was having trouble with and replaced a blown fuse. He thought my belt had too much play and suggested we pull the car into his underground where his tools were.

But something was off. I don’t know. He was doing everything so gracefully. I looked up at the moon; it seemed unreal somehow. Dad saw it, too, and we knew what this probably was. We grew heavy with sadness, a sadness that stretched back 30 years, but we bore it like we always do and kept going with the car.