In 1986, my father, a policeman in Colombia, and my mother came to the U.S. seeking asylum from the country’s violence. Like a lot of first-generation kids, I grew up in between, translating for my parents, teaching them English, doing their taxes, watching them figure out how to survive in the US.

My dad became a long-haul truck driver. He was gone most of the time. And when he was home, he was too tired to really be there. That was our relationship for a while, distance, mostly. Then one summer, he asked if my brother and I wanted to come with him.

The truck became its own little world. We’d eat junk food, watch movies on a tiny screen, sing along to whatever was on the radio. We’d pull over at these random roadside attractions that felt weirdly magical as a kid. I’ve seen the world’s smallest cow. The largest lemon. That kind of thing. It wasn’t Disneyland, but it was ours.

On one of those trips, I got out to use the bathroom at a stop. When I came back, the truck was already moving. At first, I thought he was just pulling forward. Then it kept going.

I remember standing there, not totally understanding what was happening yet. Just watching it get smaller. The sound of it fading. That slow, sinking feeling in your body when something isn’t right. He didn’t realize I wasn’t inside.

It took him about ten minutes to come back, but it felt longer. Long enough for a lot of things to creep in… the quiet thought that maybe he wouldn’t. When he finally pulled back in, everything was different. He told me later it was the first time he’d ever felt real fear.

We didn’t talk about it much after that. But something shifted. Like we both understood, in a way we hadn’t before, how easy it is to lose each other.

That feeling stayed with me.

Night at the Oasis comes from there.

-Kim