"a light, that shines...special for you, and me"

On my keyring, I only have 2 keychains. A Coach butterfly charm, a birthday gift from Courtney that I love, and an Energizer flashlight covered in tan pleather. When you squeeze it, it lights up. A simple little gadget that has prompted Jackie to mock me about, because, apparently, I use it a lot. Not only do I use it a lot, I am very cautious and concerned about its lifespan. I don't like it when people play with it - switching it on and off with a gentle push. I take this little convienence tool very seriously.

My Dad gave me this keychain several years ago. He most likely got it for free when he bought cigarettes or found it in a parking lot somewhere. He was always finding random objects and trying to pawn them off on us. One year, he found a gold Flyers charm and tried to convince me to wear it to school.

"This is nice Kris - look, 14 karat gold!"

I think he ended up sporting it - to support the Flyers? To show off his find? To prove me wrong? Who knows...

Back to the keychain - I am sure when he gave it to me, I mocked him. "Gee, thanks Dad," I probably said. He always took it in stride, my teenage ridicule, laughing right back at me - knowing he was goofy and enjoying it. It's the same way I am now, I am always laughing the hardest at my own jokes.

It probably made him feel good to give it to me, like it was something I'd always have with me. And I am sure he gave me about 14 uses for it at the time. Five or so years later, I think of him everytime I pull it out. When I am rooting through my bag on the train, when I'm trying to fit my key in the door of my apartment, when I am finding my way through a dark area...there it is, to my rescue, so to speak.

My Dad didn't impart volumes of knowledge upon me in the 52 years of his life. He wasn't always around for that, for the advice, the pep talks, the guidance. But he got his snippets in, here and there. There are very poignant nuggets that I've retained - some trivial and some much more significant.

I can still hear his scratchy voice each time I put the cap on a 2 liter bottle of soda. "Twist it tight! I don't want it going flat!" I don't even have 2 liter bottles of soda in my apartment that often, but when I do, you can bet I probably only drink from it once, as after I've put the cap on again - I can't get it reopened for the life of me.

I used to drive an old Chevy Cavalier wagon in college, for freshman and sophomore years at least. It was powder blue. The back door did not close, so in order to keep our belongings in the back during our rides to and from Washington D.C., my friends and I used to have to hold on to a thin rope. One day, in our nation's capital, I ran out of gas. The car just stopped dead somewhere in NE Washington D.C. We trekked to the station and filled up a container, then back to the car to put it in. A conversation with my Dad later that night ensued:

"Yeah, I ran out of gas today, it was so annoying!"

"Is your gas gauge broken?"

"No."

"Then for what good reason did you run out?"

I had no good reason. Maybe laziness, or lack of money, or simply just not paying attention. In any event, I am considerably aware now of the amount of gas in my car at all times.

Growing up, I remember having a lot of "stuff". Whether it was toys, books, electronics, bikes...I always had my share of things to play with. My Dad was a stickler for making sure I took care of everything. When a kid from the neighborhood stole my bike from our driveway, my Dad and I drove around for hours looking for it. He didn't want to retire to the house. He never gave up on finding it, even when I did.

"Take care of your things Kris, you want them to last a long time, right?"

Of course I did. Now I find myself wishing he took his own advice and took better care of himself.

At many times during the day, he enters my head and sets up shop in my thoughts. Like the silly little keychain, he comes into my life in small, but useful and meaningful (to me) ways. I am worried that if the light runs out, I will lose a little part of him, 2 years later. I don't want the light to fade like my memories might.

I need those thin rays of light, leading my way...