Your Dad wears a tweed suit and a plain tie. His hair has just started to turn gray at its curly ends. When he smiles, he flashes an uncorrected gap on the left side of his top row of teeth. He drives you to school every morning and every morning as you pile out of the back seat, he asks, “Do you have your lunch?” even though you are always holding it in your hand.

You imagine as you run up the steps to the elementary school that your Dad always waits at the curb watching until the faintest shadow of you fades into the doorway. But your Dad doesn’t. He usually drives away as soon as he sees the back of your head. He pops an old tape cassette into the stereo. He leans back in the seat of the family Volvo and turns the volume up. He takes a small sip of coffee from his travel mug and says to no one in particular, “Oh yeah. This is the funk.”

This is what your Dad calls funk.

(Thanks for Casey Cochran for his guitar.)