Dad, you are in my heart pocket no matter how many years have passed.
Memory:
I am eight years old and riding on the gas tank of my Father's motorcycle. We are rounding up the cows for milking. My Dad says he thinks I am ready to ride alone. I take hold of the handlebars. I can feel his confidence in me. He says yes, you are ready and jumps off. I glance back and see him standing, still smiling, yelling, "Look where you're going!" I look ahead and see the field, the cows, the blue sky, and the wild sensation of flying by the seat of my pants.
That feeling is palpable.
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