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.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He’d never forget to ask how my dog <\/a>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.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

“How’s Jack and Grace?”<\/p>\n\n\n\n

“Good,” I’d say.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

“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.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

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.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

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\u2014before I was a cop.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

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.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

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.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

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.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Sleep well.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

From the Jagged Edge on a summer night, I remain,<\/p>\n\n\n\n

TC<\/p>\n\n\n\n

<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

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