DREAMSCAPE Shelby Weisburg Willamette University
He was my father, but not my father. We drove: the imaginary pick-up a mooring in the gusty country. My fingers smudged the window, yearning to touch the beard-grey fields and chicken-skin trees as they reeled unhurriedly past. Outside blurred like thunder clouds. Inside, his soothing, rumbling voice sang about Detroit or the Rockies without sound. His crow’s feet deepened with callow laughter and reconciled the boney air slipping through the cracked windows. Wind brushed the polyester seats, remembered the smell of grassy, sweaty work caught deep between their fibers and mollified my raging wish— it didn’t matter. I understood he made mistakes. He was my father, but not my father.