He was whistling like he always did. Half-whistling, that is, as his mouth was at a full half part. He was too gentle to whistle, which requires the forceful projection of air out of the all but closed mouth. The air came out of his mouth naturally, like breathing. The small red truck reeked of butterscotch, his breath perfuming the car with the dissolving Werther’s hard candy that sat atop his tongue. There was an endless supply of butterscotch, their home where cigarette butts usually lie.
We were on our way to the farm to feed the cows. A 45 minute trek with decreasing urbanism as the distance increased. The whistle was soothing, as was the warm sun on my face. I usually wrapped myself in a buttery blanket and slept like a kitten, but today I just listened to the song of mixed whistles, air being pulled in through the windows, and air being pushed out of his lungs. He bought my help that day with the promise of double cheeseburgers from McDonald’s, though I would have helped him either way. He pried open a coke can top with the nail on his dark thumb, as thick and callused as his hands and handed it to me.
I was his companion, the Sancho Panza to his Don Quixote. I followed him everywhere, even to early mass on Sundays where I was the only child. I would wake up to the familiar scratch of his hardened nail on my shoulder- this is how he always got someone’s attention. Still sleepy-eyed, he would slick my hair back with the same thin, greasy-toothed comb he used in his hair, still covered in pomade. Our hair would match: his jet black and shiny, mine a dark blonde. His dark skin, tanned from years of work in fields and his own natural color, was contained within a modest polo. My pale skin and thin figure was similarly clothed, in the same style polo and slacks as he. I was a miniature model of my grandfather, the yin to his yang, the white to his black.
I call him Tatay. Tatay (TAH-tie) is a Tagalog word for father, and all of his children called him this name during my childhood. The entire generation of grandchildren, learning from their own parents, attributed the same affectionate name to the same man. We knew no better- we thought this was his name. We were all his children, and he looked after us all with the same hardened hands and soft voice.
As I was his faithful companion, he was mine as well. It was he alone who took me to Boy Scout meetings in the fourth grade. His face was the only face I saw in the audience of the Clay County School District Elementary Spelling Bee. The language was his second, and he did not care for learning to spell or the fact that I comes before E, except after C. He sat in the crowd with the same beaming smile he always had on. He was watching his favorite, after all.
The truck he drives now is black and roaring. He climbs down from the mounted vehicle, the one with a ram as its logo, a more slender man. His hair is graying, no longer jet black. He moves more slowly now, and I wish more than ever that I could help him lift feed, eat cheeseburgers, and hear the constancy of his whistle once more.
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