The radio was quietly playing in the background. Besides the occasional snide remark, from one sister to another, the van was silent. My Dad is a quiet man who talks to himself more than he does other people. We were used to it.
I don't remember where we were headed or why my Mom wasn't with us. I do remember a song that came on the radio, "Breakfast at Tiffany's" by Deep Blue Something. I remember because my Dad started spontaneously singing it at the top of his lungs and changing the lyrics as he went. Our silent van was suddenly filled with the sounds of my Dad's screaming voice and little girl giggles. We laughed until we cried. I remember my checks hurt.
Memories are a funny thing. There are portions of my life that are a blur. There were people and places, but I have to try hard to narrow anything specific down. Then there are memories like that one, that are so crisp and clear. If I close my eyes I can hear myself laughing as my Dad screamed his made-up song lyrics. I can feel the upholstery on the seats of my parent's minivan and smell the sweet sent of shampoo coming from my sister's hair.
It makes me wonder what memories my children will take with them. I try so hard to make memories with them, taking them places, doing things, making things, but in the end it will probably be the simplest moments, when I didn't try at all, that they will remember. Crisp and Clear. Something as simple as driving around in the family minivan.
