memories are simpler burdens when shared

I spoke about my dad with my sister today. Years ago, I was driving, my sister was riding shotgun and my dad was in the seat behind her. My ’98 Jeep’s inside light, the one directly above my dad’s head, stayed lit whenever the car was on. That night, the duct tape I had put over it had peeled off. My dad sat there, under the warm glow, as I drove. My sister caught a glimpse of him in the mirror and started to laugh. He looked like a little boy who was along for the ride. It was one of those moments of unintentional humor, based mainly upon observing someone who doesn’t know they are being observed. It was one of those moments that is hard to describe why it is actually funny. I smile anytime I think of it.

Something sparked that memory in me today. My natural urge to reminisce with my sister sprung up. Almost immediately, I thought no, don’t share that out loud. My dad is a tricky, layered subject of conversation. But then, I don’t know why, I shared the memory anyway. My sister laughed immediately. My brother-in-law, too. He even remembered us sharing the story with him years back. It was easier than I thought, speaking about him. It was less scary than I thought. I count it as a small win.

On the way home, I stopped at the river to put my feet in. The water was warm for this time of the year, the sun was setting and my dog was eating the tall grass. It was a good Sunday.

I miss my dad, like always, but maybe I do not have to miss him alone.