My sister and I recently reminisced about sleeping in our dad’s motor home, parked on his property for visitors to stay in. We were so cold out there. The worst was when we needed to use the bathroom and discovered we were locked out of the the house. We did have some good, silly talks out there.
What we shared was a gift for writing bad (but cherished) poetry and a love of horses and dogs. He only saw me ride once – one of his horses in his round pen. Sometimes when I ride my horse now, I imagine him watching and nodding in approval, seeing a bit of himself in me and being pleased by it. A fantasy, I suppose. A wish.
That poetic statement was almost as special as my own words, the first time we rode in his car together. We were both stumbling with unfamiliarity. It was pretty quiet, save for the attempts by my sister to keep some sort of conversation going. My dad asked me what I though about Arizona. Besides meeting my family, it was the first time I’d been to the desert state.
I scrambled for something memorable and special to say but all I could come up with was, “It sure is dry.” Treasures, cherished treasures…
And in my imagination, they both realized when they met me, that I truly was always a part of them as much as they are a part of me.