I Just Want to Be a Good Dad

Each section is based on the Oxford English Dictionary’s word of the day from August, 2024.

I. mob-lolatry, n.

I just want to be
a good dad,
you know?

They’re always on about how
we never go anywhere.

And, it’s so damn hot,
I don’t mind the idea
of being in a car all day.

The 12 straight hours of Taylor Swift
doesn’t sound that bad either.

II. devil’s horse, n.

Logically, I know
bugs happen in campsites—
it’s their home.

I didn’t expect
them to overwhelm our tent
while I pumped up the mattresses.

I also didn’t think
Aria would give a name 
to every grasshopper.

III. panchreston, n.

Aria’s attention span
is what you would expect
of a six year old.

Unlike her older sister,
she does not want to sit in the shade
rereading The Maze Runner.

So, instead, I send her on a quest
to find the perfect walking stick.
Works every time.

IV. nosebleeder, n.

The next day,
another long drive
down California.

Claire looks up from her book,
asks about the mountain
out her window in the east.

“I think that’s Lassen,” I say,
squinting toward the morning sun.
“That’s where we’re camping today.”

“ON the mountain?!” she asks.
After I say no, she focuses on it again.
“Can we try to climb it though?”

V. megstie, int.

“What?! You can’t be serious!”
I gasp. “It’s a volcano!”

Aria looks up from her iPad.
“I want to climb a volcano!”

“You too? There’s no way
we could do it.”

“It has to be possible,” Claire responds.
“I’m googling it.”

VI. kass-kass, n.

Claire says
the hike to Lassen Peak is
“only five miles long.”

I say
we don’t have hiking essentials and
would need to go to a store first.

Aria says
she wants to plant a flag on the top
“like Neil Armstrong.”

I say
she can barely focus
through an episode of Bluey.

They say
I’m “a force of inertia”
and “a big meanie.”

I tell
Claire to find
the closest Big 5.

VII. hdb, n.

We have to stop in Redding
to get ourselves
actual hiking shoes and packs.

Claire’s directions from Apple Maps
sends us meandering through
three neighborhoods on the way.

VIII. bellywash, n.

They do a lap around the store
to break in their new shoes and packs
while I find some for myself.

They return with 
three tall glass bottles of lemonade
while I stand on the balls of my feet.

They tell me how hot it’s been and
we’re buying expensive shoes anyway 
while I check my card balance on my phone.

Aria hugs the bottles and
Claire balances the shoe boxes 
while I lead them to the checkout.

IX. biblioklept, n.

During the drive to Lassen,
Claire finishes the Maze Runner,
infodumps about new details she noticed.

Don’t worry, she packed a backpack
specifically for backup books
just for this situation.

She takes out a brick of a book
from her mobile library,
starts reading.

X. onion, n.

I successfully get them both
up and in the car before dawn—
a literal miracle.

The drive is winding switchbacks.
Aria complains about her ears popping.
Claire eyes the wildfire remnants we pass.

The sun rises as we pull into the parking lot.
Another family starts their hike
as we get ourselves ready.

XI. dumb phone, n.

Don’t know why, but when
I put my phone in my pocket,
I feel her phone in my hand
from the last hike we went on
before she passed.

She loved hiking, looked forward
to taking our daughters
on her favorites when
they were old enough.

She never got to do that.
Her equipment is still
in the back of our closet—
I can never bring myself
to look at it.

XII. tragedietta, n.

Aria is ready to run up the mountain,
Claire right behind her.

I stop by the trailhead to look at the map,
check for safety notices.

The hike description says,
“Strenuous.”

XIII. southpaw, n.

“Come on, Dad!” Aria yells,
drawing zigzags in the dirt

with the walking stick she found
the first night of our trip.

XIV. oysterling, n.

For the first 500 feet,
Claire keeps a constant pace.
Aria, on the other hand, runs
straight to the first switchback,

leans around the interpretive sign,
stares at the fading social trail
that goes straight up the ridge,
taps the wall with her foot.

“Don’t even think about it,”
I warn, stopping to stretch my legs.

XV. blackberry, v.

Aria sighs. Her walking stick
leaves a snake in the dirt.

Claire picks pines off
branches as she passes,

twirls them between her fingertips
as she hums “Cruel Summer” to herself.

XVI. sprig, v.

Loose dirt and gravel
shift underfoot on the
next stretch of trail.

Almost wish my shoes
were spiked like cleats
to stop from slipping.

XVII. hap-harlot, n.

The last time I looked over
a talus on the side of a mountain,
she was still alive and smiling.

We laid a blanket on the shore of a lake.
She told me about an article she read
as a pika ran around the rocks behind her
with a mouthful of wildflowers.

XVIII. peepling, n.

We rest at the next switchback
in the shade of a clump of trees.

Aria hands me her walking stick,
jumps onto a log along the side of the trail,

announces, “Now on beam: Simone Biles,”
cautiously walks across the log and back,

jumps, lands with her arms above her head.
Claire and I, and some passersby, applaud.

XIX. milder, v.

Little shade
covers the next section of trail.
Relentless sun
bakes the rock underfoot.

Sweat pours down my face
like rain on a windshield.
Whimsy becomes determination;
irritation grows on their faces.

XX. ramgunshoch, adj.

The morning sun warms up
quicker than anticipated.

Aria’s shoulders are slumped;
her walking stick drags behind her.

She asks Claire why the trees
get shorter the higher we go up.

Claire gives a short, uncertain answer
and a short, sudden insult.

Her walking stick hits the ground
as she runs further up the trail.

XXI. hyphy, adj.

When I try to talk to Claire about
how what she said was wrong,

she erupts into a loud tirade
like a pan of forgotten pasta on the stove.

Listen, nod, watch her eyes.
She needs to sit down and drink water.

I pick up Aria’s walking stick,
lead Claire to the nearest shade.

XXII. oxford comma, n.

A tree, a stone, and shade.
Sweat, dust, and sunscreen.
Sit, drink, and breathe.

Me, Claire, and—
oh shit.
Where is Aria?

XXIII. chicken dance, n.

No sign of her.
No sign of her.
No sign of her.

I drop everything,
run up the trail.
How far could she have gotten?

Never felt such speed before.
Never played such a frantic game of I Spy before.
Never investigated footprints like a crime scene before.

Her name comes out
of my arid throat
like a squawk.

XXIV. gabster, n.

Magnolia would never
lose control like this.
She was an attentive mother.
I did my best,
but I couldn’t compare.

She had a way of talking,
connecting with people
that I can’t replicate.

XXV. pepper-water, n.

Tears sting my cheeks.
My thighs full of magma.
Rocks fly under my dashing feet
like arrows in a boobytrapped tomb.

At the top of a man-made staircase,
behind a boulder, by a squat pine tree,
Aria hugs her knees to her chest,
crying, crying.

Approach slowly. Say her name gently.
Wrap her in my arms. Never let go.
Her tears, sweat soak my shirt.
My tears, sweat soak her sunhat.

XXVI. bada, adj.

I tell her I’m glad she’s safe,
that what her sister said
was inappropriate.

Her face is pink, but
I can’t tell if its the heat,
the hike, or her feelings.

I get her water bottle
out of his backpack,
tell her to drink some.

XXVII. pussivant, v.

Big feelings come out
like shaken up soda.

She’s speaking a language
I can’t understand.

I listen to her timbre,
read her face.

XXVIII. anthomania, n.

Air enters her lungs
sounding like worn-out brakes.

Rhythm becomes steadier,
the sound less harsh.

Her eyes on the wildflowers
in the valley below us.

XXIX. chao tom, n.

I help get Aria back to her feet,
get her things back in order,
say we need to find her sister.

Claire comes around the bend,
carrying Aria's walking stick,
which I realize I dropped in my panic.

She offers it to her along with an apology,
says the heat and lack of water got to her,
but it's no excuse for hurting her.

XXX. taffety tart, n.

She digs a Kind bar out of her backpack,
tosses it to Aria and says,
"We've almost conquered the volcano."

Within seconds, chocolate is smeared
on her face. She holds her stick aloft,
screams like a soldier running into battle.

XXXI. upful, adj.

Finally, the trail flattens.
Four interpretive signs greet us,
a large rock in their center.

Haze on the horizon,
a cloudless sky above.

Claire drops her pack
by a sign about butterflies,
pulls out her phone to take pictures.

Rocks cast short shadows
under the merciless sun.

Aria scurries around a sign
about the different types of volcanoes,
plants her stick between rocks above the forest.

The wind amplifies her cheer
as it echoes down the mountainside.

I think I did okay.