Bullseye. His eyes squinted, result of a grin big enough to reveal teeth whiter than my pointy pumps before guiding another dart into the board. He was tan, built, and confident enough. He had a sort of strategy about him, everything planned and articulate. It seemed like he could hold his liquor; he kept his composure throughout that night, and he has since then too. It meant a lot to someone like me.
The day Grant died I got in my car and drove until my eyelids heavily demanded me to stop. It was raining hard, the universe’s admittance of how horrible everything was. I remember it being foggy, but maybe my clumped tears were just clouding my vision. Either way, I couldn’t see well; driving conditions were bad. Any sane person would have pulled over, but, for the first time, I no longer qualified as sane. So I kept pushing my foot down farther, accelerating towards nowhere.
Sometime in between the years’ worth of hours spent in the car together, my dad and I have acquired a unique understanding of the world. I consider myself lucky because my dad has shown me how to make a dreadful experience a brighter one. All he has to do is pack us in the car for a 23-hour trip, and tell some jokes along the way. There it is; the coexistence of the bad and good—depending on the amount of times we have heard said jokes previously, of course.