The Smell of Diesel

March 03, 2005

Just the smell of diesel and I am five maybe six years old. Transported by fumes to a place where my dad is seated behind the wheel of a big machine. I think maybe it is a bold green 1953 Chevrolet Bel Air. I wish I could remember more. What was he wearing? What brand of cigarette was he smoking? I know that he loved me more than his own life. This is no small matter, that Lies are at the root of human wrongdoing.I can hardly believe I have been without him for nearly 20 years. He lived long enough to worship his toddler grandson. Having been around long enough I am able to weigh what you say against what you do. 

Dad was a small man with the thickest gray hair I'd ever seen and his skin was flawless. He was an impeccably groomed man who used witch hazel and turtle oil for perfection. He was fit and trim and never touched alcohol, except for sacramental wine. But, he was never without a cigarette. 

We are born to die. Somewhere deep beneath his steel blue eyes there was unrest and pain. But I never saw it until a week before he left the two of us. Like that cigarette that burned down to the white filter-- one day his life smouldered into dust. He left without a goodbye. There were just a couple of black and white photos, a glow in the dark crucifix and a broken heart. May his memory be blessed. 

He chose death to put an end to his unhappiness. They said that his actions would separate him from the kingdom. I choose not to believe that. Until we meet again, only God knows.