The Word: Lottery

My nose tingles as I press it against my living room’s wall-sized window pane. Less than an inch of glass separates six-year-old me from freezing December temperatures. My excited panting fogs the window, and I—contrary to the standing orders of my parents to keep my hands off of windows—pull my head back slightly and begin to draw shapes.

First comes the square, then the triangle on top. A house. Exhale. Rectangles and squiggly circles form trees. Exhale. Stick figures spring up. Exhale. A smiling sun appears. Exhale.

I exhale again, this time in impatience. Where is he? If six-year-old me is anything, he is punctual. To me, 8:30 means 8:30, and it is already 8:42. Forehead against the glass, I continue to man my post overlooking the driveway. Out on the street, headlights flash. Managing my expectations—you know, as six-year-olds do—I wait to see if the headlights turn towards my house. They do, and excitement instantly replaces grumpiness. I wave my arms wildly, bouncing with anticipation. Two short honks sound from the garage, and I race to the door.

I yank it open, and Dad is in the doorway. His briefcase looks heavy and his eyes look tired, but he flashes a huge smile and scoops me up for a hug. I cling to him tightly until he manages to shake me off. As we walk towards the kitchen, my motor mouth is off to the races.

“Today-I-got-up-and-read-two-books-and-then-I-ate-lunch-and-then-Mommy-said-I-could-play-video-games-so-I-did-that-and-then-I-played-with-Martin-and-we-had-dinner-and-Mommy-saved-you-some-and-put-it-over-the-stove,” I blurt in one breath.

Dad smiles again. “That all sounds great,” he says, taking the plate down from the shelf. “Dinner looks great too.”

I plop myself down at the kitchen table as Dad starts eating.

“Ooh, I almost forgot!” Dad reaches into his pocket. “This is it, Andj. I can feel it.”

He hands me a Powerball ticket, explaining that he buys one whenever he stops for gas on the way home from work. As I study it intently, Dad transitions into life-lessons mode, emphasizing that buying a lot of lottery tickets is a huge waste of money and can’t replace an honest living. I nod solemnly as he gives his spiel—spieling is not uncommon for Dad—but look up to see amusement take the place of the weariness in his eyes.

“But how cool would it be if we did win, Andj?” he jokes, returning to his dinner.

We didn’t win that lottery. Over the last 13 years, we have not won any of the dozens of lotteries that Dad has entered. As part of our commitment to the joke, Dad and I always feign surprise and disappointment. This past winter, when the Powerball was approaching $1 billion, Dad proclaimed, “This is it, everyone!” But in a twist that shocked us both, we lost that one too.

Dad has continued to go to work early and get home late. His briefcase has continued to look heavy, and his eyes still look tired. He still scoops me in for a hug every time he sees me, though I grew to exceed the weight limit of the picking-up portion a long time ago. And when I call home from college, he still listens to my motor mouth.

As I sit on my bed and resist the urge to draw shapes on my dorm window, I know that, while I may not have won the Powerball, I did end up winning the lottery.