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I notice as we sit talking, laughing, and the light begins to fade, that we haven’t mentioned our dad. These are the times he usually comes up, out in the environs he loved. He drowned sixteen years ago. Now that I think about it, our ride will end on the anniversary of his death.


This year we’ve talked more about our mom — our mom who has ever been caring and consistent, not mercurial or mysterious. It seems more fair, really. Our dad was gone before we did anything as adult brothers. It’s our mom who’s supported us all these years, listened to our joys and sorrows, and been an important link between us.

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Taken on August 29, 2017