My Father and the Cherry Ripe Trick

I was three years old, just a tiny tot, playing in the gutter near my family home on Murray Street in Hobart. My nose was a mess — snot hanging almost to my lips — but I couldn’t have cared less. I was entranced by ants marching across the pavement. They were these tiny, organized creatures that held my full attention. I was lost in their world until my father’s voice pulled me back.

“Get out of the gutter, come home,” he yelled, his boots pounding closer as he approached from his shift at the Yellow Cab Company. He looked as tired as he always did, his cap and jacket marked by the sweat and stress of long hours behind the wheel.

“Wipe your nose,” he directed me, and I wiped my nose on my cardigan sleeve as any three-year-old would. That’s when he held it out — a ‘Cherry Ripe Bar’. My eyes widened; it was one of my favorite treats.

“Come home with me, and I’ll give you this,” he said, seeing he had my full attention. But then he pulled it back. “You’ll get it when we’re home.”

We walked back, my hand enveloped in his. He discarded his Yellow Cab uniform piece by piece as we entered, and he settled into his armchair. “Take my shoes out to where I clean them,” he said. I was focused on my impending treat and quickly asked, “Can I have my ‘Cherry Ripe’ now?” “When you get back,” he assured me, his eyes twinkling mischievously.

I carried out his shoes, placed them in their usual spot, and dashed back, my mouth watering in anticipation. Instead, he…