This was so beautiful it hurt. I, being a daddy’s girl, can only pray that it’s like this for my father when that “inevitable end,” as he likes to call it, does come.
“What do you picture when you listen to this? What can you see?”
I fiddled with the air conditioning vent, thumbing it up until it hit the right angle to cool Virginia-summer sweat from my brow. The car radio was tuned to a classical station, a concession I made because Dad was driving, because he’d treated me to pints of cold beer and baskets of wings, one of few meal outings we’d made together that summer.
“I don’t know.” A verbal shrug, because his eyes were on the road and I felt inexplicably uncomfortable, put on the spot. ‘I don’t picture anything,’ I wanted to say, because we were almost home and I was too tired for the challenge, the way I’d always gone monosyllabic when he asked how my day was on the long drives home from my high school.
But even as I thought it, willing the conversation…
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