Tonight, as it often does, the softer hands of grief tapped me on the shoulder while I was driving into a sunset. I’d frequently go to see my Dad and Mom on nights precisely like this. After an ice cream, I’d swing in for a dooryard visit. A ten-minute hello to catch up, but nothing riveting would be said. We’d visit for a few, talk about the Red Sox on the television, and then I’d be gone, feeling satisfied that all was right in the world.
He’d never forget to ask how my dog was doing before the conversation tapered off; sometimes, he’d ask about two dogs in the early years when I had more patience and didn’t mind sharing a bed with a lab, a setter, and the Significant One.
“How’s Jack and Grace?”
“Good,” I’d say.
“I stopped the other day, and ol’ Jack acted like he would come through the window. I stuck my hand in the door, and as soon as he sniffed a little, he let me in.” Dad would laugh; he loved tough dogs who didn’t bite him.
I never locked my door. During some of those years, I patrolled the town I lived in; I drove by my house thirty times a day, able to see if there was a problem. And, truthfully, Jack would have taken someone’s arm off; there was no question. But not Dad’s arm, nope; he smelled like family.
Tonight, the summer atmosphere surrounded me in glorious warmth, with a touch of a breeze coming through the window. Oh, and Spandau Ballet on 80s on 8. I am not a Spandau Ballet fan, but I played “True” in the early 80s while working on the radio—before I was a cop.
The specific song only matters because when it’s played, the melody gives a nod to hidden thoughts that wait for the perfect song to come out and dance back through time.
I drive the same roads I’ve always driven. My parents lived less than one and a half miles away, so swinging by wasn’t a chore. It was expected and embraced. It was a simple left turn into a driveway; he’d always be there.
The song, the breeze, and my mind melded into a trifecta of memories, bouncing from one summer to the next. Soon, autumn will do the same thing to me. I’ll probably smell pungent wood smoke on a cold October night; grief will visit again, I hope, with a softer tap on the shoulder and a song that I like better.
Sleep well.
From the Jagged Edge on a summer night, I remain,
TC