Fading Memories


Madison Gonzales

Quiroz writes about her childhood memories with her dad.

Evelyn Quiroz, Entertainment Editor

Spanish corridos play in the background as my family pulls out of the driveway on the way to my dad’s next work gig. I look out the window onto the asphalt of I-20 and remember all of the jobs my dad took me on years ago. He taught me the basics of home improvement like how to fix a leaky toilet or how to build a porch. I realized how much we drifted apart over the years. I, now, appreciate those memories because that was our time — the only time we spent together. 

At first, my dad only took small gigs around the city. On occasion, he would fix a leaky toilet or install a fence here and there, but over time he started to take on larger work projects. He started to flip houses, and those projects would often take weeks to finish. Sometimes, my mom and I helped him, and I felt more than happy to. It made up for all the time we lost while he worked, but it reminded me of the memories that lingered from my childhood. 

Once I started high school, I spent most of my time on classes and my dad spent his time on work projects. There were days when we would not even see each other and the times we did were brief. He would only ask about my day and I would give a quick answer and go straight to work. It was like that all year. 

After school, I would stay in my room and forget about time. He would knock on my door to check up on me sometimes after work, but most days I was too busy to notice. Sometimes I regret not taking advantage of the free time he could spend with me and I know I will regret it more once I leave for college.

I help him out occasionally on the weekend and the majority of summer. I love working with him even if the work is hard sometimes. His work ethic inspires me to try hard in everything I do but it has also affected how much time I spend with my dad. The memory of 5-year-old me looking for a hammer in the tool kit as he held the final nail to the board, is a happier time I wish I could relive again.   

My dad means the world to me, and I wish I could tell him that in person without having the urge to tear up.