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Picking Dad Up

Page 2

Bridgette Burton

I have five brothers, and one sister. I am forty years old and I am smack in the middle of all of them. We are close, literally and figuratively. We all live within ten minutes of each other. We mind each others’ kids, we eat lunch together every Sunday. Each one of us takes turns picking Dad up and taking him places.  We are close because of my Dad and my Mum. Strict Catholics, strict parents, strong parents, loving parents.  My Mum is great, she’s really well, very healthy and bossy.

My Dad sparks to life as we pull into Nicholson Street.

“We had a house here, a big house for all the kids. I was working in Collingwood and Eva was working for the….. local school. Part time. A beautiful house, California Bungalow. That’s a good style. We added a whole level and we still had children coming out our ears. We have, we have…You will have to forgive me. My memory is not so good anymore”.

I have stopped outside his house.  He looks out, and raises his eyebrows. “Well, thank you, right to the door.”

My Dad leans over and takes his hand in mine, he presses it to his lips for a moment and places it back smiling.

“What a fine thing you have done, to take me home. That is the mark of a really good person. You are a good person. You must have a good family, to have raised such a fine woman. Thank you.”

He opens the door and gets out. He shuts it carefully. He looks in through the open window.


I cannot actually say “Bye Dad”, I feel like I will damage him if I do. So I smile, I wave.

Dad pats the roof of my car three times. I drive away. I will see him Thursday.

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