I have this memory. It flutters in like light through the blinds in the morning. Sitting in the backseat. My father is in the front. There’s a landscape along the window. We’re on the highway. I’m 6, 7, maybe 8. Holding my father’s prayer hat in the tip of my fingers through a slit in the opened window. The white crochet flapping furiously outside. I remember, smiling.
And then a second later, it is gone. Pulled by the wind down the road. Gone forever.
I swallow. Roll up the window.
I only tell him about it ten years later.