Kind Like Katey

Some families have road-trip playlists.

My dad apparently had a road-trip curriculum.

When we were kids, we camped on the St. Lawrence River pretty much every weekend during the summer. It was about a two-hour drive from home, so we spent a whole lot of time in the car together.

And at some point, Dad decided those four hours of driving every weekend were the perfect opportunity to educate his children.

His lesson of choice?

Simon & Garfunkel.

Specifically, “El Condor Pasa (If I Could).”

He didn’t just play it because he liked it.

He played it over and over and over again until we knew the damn song by heart.

Me. Katey. My brother.

Trapped in the car on the way to the St. Lawrence River with Dad hitting us with Simon & Garfunkel until apparently we had demonstrated an acceptable level of proficiency.

I couldn’t tell you why it was so important to him that his children know that particular song.

Maybe he just loved it.

Maybe he thought we should appreciate good music.

Maybe after two hours in a car with three kids, making us memorize Simon & Garfunkel was his own form of entertainment.

Whatever the reason, it worked.

Because all these years later, I still know that damn song.

And that’s the funny thing about childhood memories.

At the time, it was just another drive.

We were going camping again.

Another summer weekend.

Another two hours in the car.

Another round of the same song Dad had already played approximately 900 fucking times.

We had no idea those ordinary weekends would someday become the things we’d desperately want back.

Because now when I think about that song, I don’t just hear Simon & Garfunkel.

I can almost feel that drive.

We’re heading to the river.

The whole weekend is still ahead of us.

Dad is there.

Katey is there.

My brother is there.

We’re all still kids.

And Dad is once again making damn sure we know every word to “El Condor Pasa.”

There are so many big things I remember about growing up.

But grief has taught me that sometimes it’s the completely ordinary shit that ends up meaning the most.

A car ride.

A camping trip.

A song you’ve already heard seventeen times and really don’t need to hear again.

You don’t know you’re making a memory when you’re in it.

You definitely don’t know that decades later you’ll hear that same song and wish, just for a minute, that you could climb back into that car.

I’d take the two-hour drive.

I’d listen to the song on repeat.

Hell, Dad could play it the entire fucking way.

Because Dad is gone now.

Katey is gone now.

And my brother and I are the ones left carrying those summers around with us.

But music is funny like that.

You hear a few notes and suddenly a door opens.

For a few minutes, we’re not grown-ups who have lost people we love.

We’re just three kids heading to the St. Lawrence River for another weekend of camping.

Dad’s driving.

The river is waiting.

And Simon & Garfunkel is playing.

Again.

Of course.