Kimberly Robinson
Little Joe (1 of 3)

My father gets nervous when he's riding shotgun.  “You crossed
the line again!”  he says as I swerve back into my lane.  “Not
that badly,”my smart-assed nature replies.  He likes to tell me how to drive, even though he wasn’t here to teach me.  “I’m 20 now, Dad. I’ve been driving for four years.”  “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” he says.  He doesn’t really hear me, that’s the way it’s always been.  He loves me and I know it.  But we’re strangers. 

He moved back to Wisconsin last June, after spending nearly three years in Florida.  I haven't seen him on a regular basis since I was very small.  He looks a lot older since he's come back.  He's grown his hair too long, almost to his shoulders-- and it’s grey, almost white, and yellowing on the ends.  He has eyes that look like mine, only aged.  My nose is somewhat like his, but his nostrils are larger.  We're about the same height.  Everyone calls him "Little Joe".  Like most men of small stature, he likes to pull off being tough.  He threatens to kick everyone’s ass all of the time, but mostly he's joking.  He was in an accident about ten years ago, back when he was a truck driver.  He'd stopped along the side of the highway to check something on his truck, and another semi had come flying by, hitting him but not killing him, screwing up his arm so that for a long time he could barely make a fist, let alone throw one.

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