I listen to my "Take the Money and Run" Pandora channel in the evenings most of the time. Right around the time my dad should be cooking dinner. I sit at the table, doing my homework, it goes on and on. I can't help but wish I was in the kitchen dancing around, giggling and throwing eggs and potatoes at each other saying "think fast."
We dink around. That's what we do. No one gets me giggling like my dad. And I'd like to say I do the same...Pretty close anyway. We have code words, inside jokes, outside jokes, made up songs.
Apart from all the laughter, there's been stern support. Big hands lifting me up, patting my back. These aren't even my favorite things. I would think the dinking would be. But what makes a lump in my throat and a swelling in my chest is when I think about all the things he has told me. All the stories, all the truths about the world, all the common knowledge every small town north dakota kid gets. Whatever he tells me, I store it away. Remember it deeply. Often his thoughts pop into my head. Like when I was home last, frantic about a photography assignment I dragged him along to show me forgotten homesteads. The first story was about a feather. Ridin his bike this summer he saw a feather for about five days in a row. And he thought, "hey, I've seen a feather every day. Im'ma count the sums a bitches." I saw a feather today. I thought, huh. 102 feathers he saw before the cold sent the birds flyin.
Take the money and run....
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