Remember this place, his grown son asked him. Of course, he answered, "This is the spot where you caught a fish with a stick and some fishing line you baited, wedged it between some rocks, then went exploring." His son laughed, remembering being told he not only caught a fish but a record-breaking fish with his crude pole.
Remember this place, his grown son asked him. Of course, he answered, this is the beach we walked for miles searching for treasures from the deep. We would take our treasures like one sneaker, plastic shovels and pails, pieces of ship's rope, broken surfboards, and whatever else we found back home where we'd hang them on the fence. I remember he said again.
Remember this place his grown son asked him? Of course I do, he answered. There used to be a bus station right over there, he pointed to. You were 16 years old that summer, and you were catching a bus to North Carolina to visit the girl of your dreams you met at a beach bonfire. You said you couldn't be without her, and your love was true. You played me pretty good; he told his dad and even bought me a ticket for the next bus just an hour away. I did, he said, hoping I could change your mind but leaving it up to you to decide. You climbed onto the bus, and I watched as you went out of sight, hoping I did the right thing by letting you go.
I remember you calling me, saying it was a mistake that her folks didn't welcome you and forbade their daughter from seeing you again. I told you I was coming home and was thankful for the bus fare you had stuffed in my pocket.
What else can you remember, Dad? His grown son asked. He was quiet for a minute, then, with a tear in his eye, he said he was sorry he couldn't remember more. He wished they had more time together, more laughs, and the little things like watching Sunday football together that meant a lot to him. But even after all these years, he remembers holding your hand as you walked through the forests like two explorers. Teaching you to drive a car, games of catch in the yard, and helping me do chores quickly so we didn't miss the father-and-son derby car competition, which we won for three years in a row.
Today they sit on a park bench, each with their own thoughts of years gone by, his son finally saying he does remember everything well everything that really mattered. Now multiply that by a hundred, and that's the amount of memories I carry with me about you, about us. How about a beer, Dad?" his son asked. "Maybe some wings," he answered. Sure thing, old man, as he took his father's hand and slowly walked away together towards another father-and-son memory.
Remember this place his grown son asked him? Of course I do, he answered. There used to be a bus station right over there, he pointed to. You were 16 years old that summer, and you were catching a bus to North Carolina to visit the girl of your dreams you met at a beach bonfire. You said you couldn't be without her, and your love was true. You played me pretty good; he told his dad and even bought me a ticket for the next bus just an hour away. I did, he said, hoping I could change your mind but leaving it up to you to decide. You climbed onto the bus, and I watched as you went out of sight, hoping I did the right thing by letting you go.
I remember you calling me, saying it was a mistake that her folks didn't welcome you and forbade their daughter from seeing you again. I told you I was coming home and was thankful for the bus fare you had stuffed in my pocket.
What else can you remember, Dad? His grown son asked. He was quiet for a minute, then, with a tear in his eye, he said he was sorry he couldn't remember more. He wished they had more time together, more laughs, and the little things like watching Sunday football together that meant a lot to him. But even after all these years, he remembers holding your hand as you walked through the forests like two explorers. Teaching you to drive a car, games of catch in the yard, and helping me do chores quickly so we didn't miss the father-and-son derby car competition, which we won for three years in a row.
Today they sit on a park bench, each with their own thoughts of years gone by, his son finally saying he does remember everything well everything that really mattered. Now multiply that by a hundred, and that's the amount of memories I carry with me about you, about us. How about a beer, Dad?" his son asked. "Maybe some wings," he answered. Sure thing, old man, as he took his father's hand and slowly walked away together towards another father-and-son memory.
Mike 2026
Mike 2026
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