Wood and a few rocks

My mom left my dad when I was five. She had thought of every possible excuse she would think of for us to stay, and had thought of a way out of each one. She packed all of our clothes in boxes and had them shipped to my Aunt in Ensenada a few days before we left. She then packed wood and a few rocks in boxes and left them in the closet as to give my dad the impression that we were coming back. She had put up with enough abuse from him and was ready to leave. At the bus station not much was said between them, yet by the way they stared at each other I knew they had so much more to say, but there was only silence. My dad walked me to the small food stand a few steps away and it was then that I realized that somehow he knew we weren’t coming back. He knelt beside me and kissed me on my cheek. I remember the prickly feeling of his mustache against my face, and the strong smell of cigar. He held my tiny hands in his and quietly said

“I am going to follow the bus for as long as I can, so look for me ok.�

I thought that maybe he had gone through the boxes in the closet and figured out mom’s scheme to not come back, but I now believe that it was that insight that parents seem to have about their kids, a peculiar insight that lets parents know “things� (sometimes all things) about their kids.

Those were the last words he said to me, that was his good-bye.

My mom didn’t speak much once we were on the bus and my sister who was older probably understood a little more what was going on and was crying quietly. I turned to my mom who was holding my hand to ask her when we could come back, but just before I did I noticed tears in her eyes and that scared me. What could possibly be so bad to make my mom cry? As the bus started on the highway I looked for dad’s blue El Camino with the distinctive white camper. I saw his car cut in front of the bus. It gave me comfort and I stared out the window, afraid to look away lest I might loose him out of sight.

I wanted him to know that I saw him, that I saw his car and that I loved him, but the bus kept moving and didn’t stop. A few blocks further my dad made a right turn and our bus kept driving straight. I was five and I was confused. Tears were now streaming down my moms face and my sister’s crying wasn’t quiet anymore. I wanted to cry because I was hurting but I didn’t understand what hurt or where. I wanted to be held by my dad the way he had held me earlier, but he had made a right turn and the bus kept driving straight.