This was me at 16

Part 2

The drive home always feels long but I don't mind it. I rest my head against the window. I close my eyes to the motionless traffic. Polluted air travels across my face from the slightly opened window. My thoughts are empty and brim-full at the same time. I don't care. I'm not focusing on them now. I just sit there on the torn leather, soaking up the only quality time with my father that this world offers me.

After a while the road gets rough. It forces me to lift my head from the peace it was in. I look up at the vehicles. They are in front of me, behind me and all around me. The movement now is endless but I am still stuck in place next to my tired father. I look at him without turning my head. He only has one hand on the steering wheel. The other hand is holding half a cigarette. The lines on both these hands seem deeper than usual. They are stained from oil and hard work. I wonder if they ever get tired of the diligence they carry out everyday from seven to seven. Hard work was always his purpose. The reason he keeps on living. I lift my gaze towards his eyes. I often wonder about all the cruelties those eyes have seen in their years. For a moment I feel sorry for him. I can see the invisible burden on his shoulders. He carries it with pride; not acknowledging that it is far heavier than what those ragged shoulders can bear. A soul's load. I never ask him about it. I never ask him much of anything. Sixteen years is too young an age to be questionable of such things. I only observe.

When we get home I direct my feet lazily inside the aged house. I make mental plans to greet my bed as soon as I can. The only important thing on my schedule being sleep. Lots and loads of sleep. My father stays in the vehicle. He always takes about 3 and a half minutes before entering the familiar doors of his family home. My mind has always been curious of this time. What is he doing and why? Once again I have never asked him for answers to these questions. I don't plan to. Instead I let my imagination sprint past pure reason to make up my own reasons for why he does this. Sometimes I think he does something mysterious like look at brochures to plan the overseas vacation he always wanted to go on when he was younger but he knows he will never get his feet to board a plane . My father does not fear much but flying has always been a silent terror of his. Other times I think he just counts his earnings for the day or how tirelessly long his childhood was under the hands of his father. After the three and a half minutes I hear him open the front door. His steps creak on the floorboards. A familiar tune I've memorized over the years. He throws his car keys with the intention of it landing on the dining table but it doesn't . It finds its target underneath the empty table. He does not sigh or seem frustrated. He just bends to pick it up. Before his body reaches its unbent height, his cell phone rings. It fills the broad hall until each room is aware of the noise.