A tear slides down my cheek and I answer you. I tell you everything--catch you up on every little detail. And you listen. Just listen.
The car vent blows out the smell of grass clippings, sweet corn, hamburger, and sweat. The scent fills my nostrils reminding me of you. My heart fills with joy and memories. Fond memories.
In a short while, when I arrive at my destination, you leave knowing I have things to do. Then my emotions escape out of every pore and crevice out into the atmosphere until our next meeting.
"See you later, Dad," I call as I open the car door and brush one last tear from my eye.
The lunch we had on Dad's birthday after he passed away.