Friday Nights

My parents divorced when I was five years old. According to court order my father had custody on Wednesday nights and weekends. That meant he picked up after work and we went home with him, to a small town in Iowa where he moved in with his mother after the divorce.

Although my father and I weren't close -- and at times there were points when we actively hated each other, I loved those weekends. I felt like my life began the minute we got in the car.

My father worked for a printing company as a graphic artist. It wasn't a glamorous, sunny-office kind of job. He made huge stickers that went on the sides of trucks and trains. He always smelled of chemicals. Hygiene wasn't something my father was noted for, and after Grandma died and there was no one to get after him he frequently slept in his clothes and went to work, not changing or bathing for a week at a time. He smoked. There was a smell, but it wasn't what you'd expect. I can almost smell it now. It was musty, but it was comforting.

I remember the autumn Fridays the most. It would be dark by the time we got home and Grandma would have supper waiting so that we could eat quickly and then go to the high-school football game. It would be cold and instead of buying a ticket my father would stand outside the fence until half time, when he could get in for free. My sister and I would run around and jump on the mats that were used for the pole vaulters. We never watched the games. Sometimes we'd lose track of one another, but we always met up at home.

If it rained, there was the sun porch with the tin roof. We'd stop at the grocery store and Dad would buy us some trinkets to play with, or some new colors and coloring book. I loved the sound of the rain against roof and the smell of coffee coming from the kitchen where my father and Grandmother would be talking. On rare occasions my mother would come for a visit. Those were the warmest feeling nights. It felt like my home was complete.

Those days are far, far away and yet when it rains on a Friday night, like it is right now, I can feel that kitchen cinnamon warmth and hear my mom and grandma discussing the price of corn. When I think of heaven, that's what it will be like, an eternal Friday night on Grandma's sun porch.