Dinosaur Oats: A letter to my father

We were only ever divided by the pillows. The pillows that you bought to cover the holes on the tattered couch cushions because you thought you were preserving my innocence. You thought I didn’t know. I knew, though. 

But on Saturday mornings, I forgot. At least for a little while. Sprawled on that stupidly uncomfortable couch, I was comfortable. Staring at the antenna that only gave us three channels, my eyes reflected in the gleam of Yogi Bear, I heard the microwave beep.

And when I didn’t have Saturday mornings to look forward to anymore, the cherrywood cabinet became my fort of comfort. I retraced your steps. I opened the packet, then its contents were mixed with the white froth and reflected in the cheapest plastic bowls you could find. And then the glass of the microwave fogs with steam, as it heats up and the colored candy hatches. 

It’s been a tradition that I have yet to break, because every Saturday evening, I start to reminisce on the remnants of our bond, over a bowl of dinosaur oats.

About the Author

Ryland McGinniss is a sophomore History and English major with a minor in Gender and Sexuality Studies. He loves to do advocacy work whenever he can, and honestly you'll probably see some of that reflected in his writing. When he's not busy with writing, he listens to music and one of his most prized possessions is his concert t-shirt collection.