If We Crashed

It was a rainy day in January. My entire family was bored and stuck inside. My brother was throwing LEGOs at me while I tried to read quietly on the carpet in the living room. My mom kept trying to get us to play board games.

“Bananagrams anyone? Yahtzee?” my brother and I didn’t even bother to respond. We’d said no so many times already that telling her we didn’t want to play again felt a bit harsh.

My dad was outside in the garage as usual. After a few more hours of boredom and a few more annoyed fights between my brother and I, my dad opened the sliding door and came into the living room where we were all sitting. The three of us looked up, giving my dad all our attention because we were so starved for entertainment.

“Anyone wanna go for a drive?” he asked us.

“Sure! That’s a great idea!” my mom said a little too enthusiastically.

To seem like I was cooler than my mom I replied, “yeah sure I guess.” My brother just nodded his head.

“Alright I’ll get the truck.” We all gathered ourselves. My brother put on real clothes finally because–though I begged him several times–he was refusing to put on anything besides underwear. I brought my book along. My mom got herself ready and put on a little makeup even though we weren’t going anywhere but the car.

We all piled into my dad’s huge gray Ford. He justified its size by saying he worked in construction and he needed all the space for his tools.

My brother continued poking me as I tried to read, looking out the window every so often to keep from getting carsick. I didn’t even bother to tell him to stop.

“Where are we going?” he asked.

“I don’t know yet,” my dad responded, “We’ll see I guess.” We kept driving through Altadena. Not many cars were on the road. It was most people’s winter break. Everyone was probably snuggled inside trying to keep out of California’s rare bout of rain.

We all sat quietly in the car. I closed my book eventually because I felt myself starting to get a little carsick. The rain started pouring down even harder.

“Be careful,” my mom said, holding onto the door out of fear.

“I’m fine,” he reassured her, patting her thigh. Then, a smile started to creep across my dad’s face.

“Wanna see something cool?” my dad asked my brother and I, looking in the rearview mirror.

“Sure?” we both responded hesitantly.

“Alright then,” he said, his smile only growing. He started swerving the car slightly. At first I was confused and a little scared. Then he started driving through the biggest puddles he could find.

Every splash was the most satisfying sight and sound. The water spewed across our windows and fell back to the ground like a wave. Between puddles, I’d watch the drips glide across the window, following the droplets to see which one won the imaginary race I perceived them having.

My brother was just as excited as I was, but, as usual, he was much more vocal about his excitement.

“Woah,” he kept saying every time we’d pass through another wave.

“Do a bigger one!” he kept demanding. My dad was happy to oblige and kept speeding up faster and faster before each puddle in order to give us the biggest possible splash he could. He was smiling, definitely pleased with himself for getting his family out and entertaining us so much. My mom was obviously still anxious, still holding onto the door handle, but she was smiling too. I’d see her and my dad exchange a knowing look and smile at each other before my dad would splash through another puddle. I smiled, no longer watching the puddles, but instead enjoying how happy my family was.

I don’t know if it was just because we were younger, but that memory felt so perfect and so simple. We were all glowing with happiness, and we were all completely invested in nothing but what we were doing. Few times since then have I felt that connected to my family. Even if we’re eating dinner at a restaurant we all like or hanging out in the backyard, there’s never that same sense of shared enjoyment at a single simple activity. Maybe I’m making a mistake in seeking that same feeling. I’ll never be that old again. My family probably will never embark on that silly adventure again. I’m happy I got to experience it at one point though.

A few years ago, when my dad took me on a motorcycle ride for the first time, I felt a similar feeling to that day with the puddles so many years ago. I could tell how much he was enjoying it too. Neither of us talked very much. We’d exchange comments at stop lights, but for the most part were silently enjoying the experience of being close to each other and living a beautiful moment together. There’s something to be said about our shared fate if something were to go wrong too. We were both on that bike. If he crashed, we both would go down. I think that knowledge brought me closer to him. Maybe that’s sad. Maybe I should be able to feel close to him without the necessity of knowing we both would die together if something bad happened.

Regardless, I can’t express my pure sense of joy riding around the Glendale hills, holding onto my dad for dear life as he sped up and glided around curves. I turned my head, heavy in the huge helmet, and watched L.A. pass below me. The houses in the hills and the city below sparkled in the sunlight. I couldn’t stop from smiling at the beauty of the scene below me.

Afterwards, when we were taking off our helmets in the garage, we were both glowing with happiness and a little bit of leftover adrenaline. I could tell how excited he was to be able to share that exhilarating experience with me. I told him how much I finally understood why he wanted the bike and why he’d spend hours on it on weekends. We talked about my grandpa’s motorcycle which is sitting in our garage gathering dust.

I realized after that ride how starved I was for closeness with my dad. I don’t think about it often because I think it’s much harder to notice a lack of something than a presence. But, my dad and I spend so little time together. It’s so rare that we’d have a more than surface level conversation. It’s so rare that we’d be that physically close to one another.

I hope we spend more time doing things like that. I miss my dad and he lives so close to me. I wish his walls weren’t so strongly constructed. I wish mine weren’t either.