Eulogy Of Father

My dad died when I was twelve. In October of 2008, I was a normal ten year old, a fifth grader excited for Halloween. My mom worked at the Michael’s Arts and Crafts store on Robert C. Daniel Parkway and my dad was an Automotive Service Writer/Advisor for Sunbelt Nissan on Washington Road. My oldest brother Jeremy was in Delaware, his first duty station in the Air Force, while my middle brother Justin was still home. Justin had graduated from Evans High in May, and his Air Force basic training wouldn’t start until November. I loved my family the way every child does, with unending joy and compassion. I idolized my brothers, thought the top of the world was on my dad’s shoulders, and knew that my mom was the smartest person I’d ever met. I never once felt a shortage of happiness. When I started fifth grade, I thought

My dad had just started letting me go on long motorcycle rides with him on his Victory. The bike was the shiniest blue I had ever seen, and he rode it to work every day. There used to be a straight-a-way where the roundabout by CarMax is now, and every night when he came home I could hear him roaring down that road. I imagined it as his way of telling us he was happy to be home before he even got to us. On the weekends, when I was lucky enough, he would wake me up super early and bundle me up in long johns, denim jeans, a thick sweatshirt, and a leather jacket just my size. My hiking boots were mandatory, as were warm socks. When we were ready, he looked just like I did, as if we were going to ride straight into a blizzard, despite it only being 60 degrees outside. But he would still tuck my pants into my boots, zip up my jacket and carefully put my bright pink polka-dotted helmet on my head as we tried our best