Geoff Hadlington

Going Down

I was seven years old when my father taught me how to swim. He said his daughter ought to learn like he did. We rode out to the lake in the '95 Chevy. It was bright red, and we sat on the back gate and licked ice cream cones in the sun at a gas station on the way. He told me that I ate my ice cream like a boy, and I laughed with him, a biteful of the treat making my teeth ache pleasantly. He tousled my long blonde hair, wearing a grin that was equal parts wistful and loving, and told me to hop in the truck, kiddo. I obliged, climbing the truck's step up to the passenger seat that dwarfed me, and closing the door, the belt buckle hanging beside me. The dashboard was warm, like the rest of the car, and it smelled like dust and polish. I nestled myself into the leather and waited obediently for father. He opened the door and settled himself into the car gingerly, shimmying into his seat. He looked over at me, and for a moment, his smile faltered and aged.