It Was Just a Picture

It Was Just a Picture

It was just a picture.
But it felt like looking into the future and the past all at once
A long white plume rising toward heaven, it took my breath away
and suddenly I was ten again,
turning toward the doorway
to see if he was standing there—
tall as ever,
filling the frame,
asking only,
“Do you want to go with me?”

I knew not to ask where.
I didn’t care.
It might be across town.
It might be across Texas.
My favorite trips were the ones
where we left Fort Worth behind—
because I knew I’d have him all to myself
for a few days.

I’d grab my shoes,
my journal,
whatever book I was halfway through,
and jump in the truck.
He’d drive.
I’d listen.
Sometimes we wouldn’t speak for hours.
I knew he was thinking.
I never interrupted that.He told me stories—
about Abilene,
about his father the train fireman,
about the café where my grandmother worked.
About Wichita Falls and the secret bank account.
About leukemia.
He placed my hand on the lump
and said it wasn’t going to kill him.
So I believed him.
And I made it my mission
to help him eat.
Strawberry milkshakes with baby formula
when he couldn’t swallow anything else

.He taught me how to go.
How to leave when it’s time.
How to trust the road
and the silence
and the ache.

And now I see Starbase where we once stood
and I cry
because I’m still going.
Still writing.
Still saying yes
without asking where.
Still hoping he’s looking down
from wherever the sky opens wide
and sees his daughter
driving toward wonder
with him riding shotgun
in every mile.