Sitting on the back deck on a warm summer evening, candles burning around the table and mini lightbulbs glowing around the doorway. Corona in hand, bare knees tucked tightly to my chest, shorts and a t-shirt covering my bathing suit (worn during my lazy afternoon spent floating in the pool), damp hair swept into a ponytail. Across the table from the two people I admire and respect most in the world. Mom, her permed hair slightly frizzy from the day’s humidity, her bottom resting on a floral padded cushion because her back is sore from watering the geraniums and chrysanthemums that strategically sprinkle our yard. Dad, red handkerchief hanging loosely from his neck, concealing the hole from which he breathes. It’s as big as a quarter and covered by a plastic button which he pushes to speak. James Taylor drifts from the speakers that hang near the roofline of the house. The music that always brings me home. And we talk. I talk about my job and my upcoming road trip. Mom talks about her job and our dinner plans. Dad talks and talks and talks, because he can.