Mom has always—correction, almost always—loved Tom (Jr., that is)’s particular brand of irreverence. His humor. The way he seems to know, instinctively, exactly how far he can go and then… goes just a little bit farther. He holds the key to her heart and her laugh. He’s relentless, and she loves it.
When she’s had enough, she reaches out and takes a swipe at him—not connecting with anything, mostly because she’s already doubled over laughing. It’s part reflex, part performance, part pure delight. And he just keeps going.
When he’s here, everything feels a little more complete. Our little nuclear family is united. Lighter, too. We feel it—we all do—that sense of being full up on something good.
And then he goes back to Alaska. And things don’t exactly dim, but they quiet. Just a notch. Maybe two. So we watch. We watch the videos. We scroll through the pictures. Again and again. Reliving the moments as they unfold in small rectangles of light. And I watch them—my mom, my dad—as they watch. The way their eyes soften. The way a smile finds its way to their mouths, like it remembers the path. Even the memory brings the joy, one step removed.
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