Dispatch #3

A Safe Place to Hibernate

As I inched toward slumber, the warmth of the afternoon light filtering through the window transported me to the passenger seat of my dad’s truck, where I took many naps as a child.

As he drove me to school, I’d lean my seat back and get in another thirty minutes of sleep as the morning sun beamed bright against my eyelids. We called his truck “the red flame” for my dad’s love of speed, and I often joked that I slept on the way to school so I didn’t have to witness his fearful driving. This helped my mom in her cause to get him to slow down and also gave the two of us many a good laugh at Dad’s expense — like seeing his face as he opened the custom decorative license plate we’d had designed, the nickname etched in fiery letters.

Of course if I’d truly been afraid, sleep wouldn’t have come so easily. I loved the comfort of having him close by, just across the console. His beloved radio talk shows blended into my nascent dreams, forming a kind of aural blanket. Dad kept a real one for me too next to a small travel pillow he stashed on the backseat.

On afternoons when he didn’t have patients, he’d sometimes take me for an outing of my choice before we headed home after school. One day, as we drove to the local museum, I began to nod off. When he asked me if I was falling asleep, I responded that I was just resting my eyes. I woke up an hour later to Dad giving me a smirk. He’d pulled into the museum’s parking lot and let me nap. “You done resting your eyes?” he asked me before we went inside.

One morning, as we arrived at my school, I was having a difficult time leaving behind a plastic bear I’d grown fond of. “He’s so small,” I said. “Can’t I just take him with me? No one will know.” But Dad remained firm: toys couldn’t go to school. Disappointed, I scanned the truck for a good place where I could leave him and decided on the cupholder. “I’ll be back soon,” I said to my bear as I nestled him amid some loose change — a safe place to hibernate.