We were driving on PCH one afternoon, coming back from Circuit City. Me, my dad, and little sister Laura. We had just bought a new stereo for my room because in a rage, my dad hurled my radio off the garage. He had quickly apologized and it was never spoken of again.
Driving back on PCH, my radio in the trunk, Dad in the drivers seat, me on the passengers’ side, and Laura in the back. My dad played a John Denver CD. We listened to Rocky Mountain High and talked about this huge voice belonging to such a tiny man and then Country Road began to play. He sang out loud and Laura joined in the way we used to when we were younger, but I felt that if I opened my mouth I would cry.
With the heavy sunshine and familiar sounds, I realized that this is just the way things are; me, my dad, ignoring our differences, letting them stand, taking up all the space in this tiny car, in this tiny life. This is the way things are, Dad on one side singing with John Dever and sun streaming through the windshield and me, on the other side, just across the armrest and ten thousand miles away.