I was driving Isaac to his first day at his first job. It's a REALLY big deal - a long awaited accomplishment. I ask him what he wants to listen to on the ride (the pre-game warm-up, hype building music). "Eye of the Tiger?" I ask. No. Weird, mom. Then he suggests, "How about Train?" (his favorite band of all time). I happily comply and 'Hey Soul Sister' is the first song that Spotify picks.
Suddenly, I'm transported to some mall food court, years ago, where we were sitting in a crowded space, eating fast food. Dan, me and all the kids. I remember feeling exhausted and absently watching the music video for 'Hey Soul Sister' on a big screen hanging above the bustling, hungry crowd. I suppose to provide mindless entertainment while shoppers ate. I remember having the keen awareness that Dan had cancer. It's interesting to reflect on so many 'ordinary' events during the post-cancer-diagnosis stage when no one observing our little family would have necessarily known we were silently fighting cancer, but the knowledge and weight of it hovered over us like an invisible cloud. We woke up and it was there. We went to work and school and it was there. We did completely mundane things like eating fast food in a mall food court and there it was. And maybe the hyperawareness of our mortality was what made these seemingly mundane moments precious because Dan was still with us and likely would not always be. The knowledge of the limited time we had remaining turned these days into sacred days, causing our minds (or at least mine) to soak them in. Burn them into my memory. Like that song. I can't hear that song without thinking about that day and thinking about Dan.
The drive to Isaac's new job is less than 10 minutes, and the song 'Hey Soul Sister' is precisely 3 minutes, 37 seconds long. My mind and heart travel a long way in those few minutes - from Isaac's first job, to a sacred moment in the past, to thoughts of Dan and how proud he'd be of Isaac and of all our children. I think of how happy he would be to meet our first grandbaby who will arrive in the next day or 2, and then I think of this Saturday when it will be 8 years since Dan left us. I fight tears which I will not allow until Isaac is out of the car because he has no idea where my mind has gone while my body simply drove him to his new job. I want to tell him how proud his Dad would be of him, in so many ways. But if I do, I'll lose the fight against these tears and Isaac doesn't need a super awkward, blubbering mom sending him off for this new adventure. So, I just swallow the lump in my throat and we sing at the top of our lungs, creating yet another sacred moment. I'll tell him soon how proud Dan would be of him. And eventually, I'll tell my grandbaby all about the grandfather they never knew and we will all remember him so fondly, and miss him, and keep capturing the sacred moments until we see him again.
