Today marks my Dad’s birthday. He would have been 60 if he had lived.
I have this memory of him. It’s summer. We’re driving down an otherwise deserted road — I am pretty sure we’ve just come from fishing somewhere where we weren’t quite supposed to be — and this song comes on the radio:
I know he was singing along, but I couldn’t really hear him. The music was blaring too loudly.
Which is why — no matter how much I disavow my love of anything else 80s — whenever this song comes on the radio now, I do the exact same thing.
Happy birthday, Dad.