“Was that your version of grace?” he questioned with mild amusement.
As I slid comfortably into the passenger seat, I quipped, “It was my graduated version”.
Dad let out a warm laugh, started up the car’s engine, and reached over to squeeze my hand affectionately.
During the peaceful drive home, the new silver bracelet resting on my wrist beautifully caught the ambient light from the passing streetlamps. I absentmindedly turned the jewelry over with my thumb, turning my attention to Dad’s strong hands gripping the steering wheel—the exact same hands that had tirelessly packed my lunches, patiently braided my hair, and enthusiastically clapped the absolute loudest at every single concert, completely regardless of how terribly off-key the choir happened to be singing.
