One of my favorite memories happened on a sunny day in 1992. I was playing All-Star softball in the summer, and both my parents had shown up, which was a rarity. I ended up carpooling more often than not, but a lot of times Dad drove. Mom had been sequestering herself for what felt like eternity because she was nearing the end of her dissertation, so it felt like a special occasion when she said that she was coming with us to my practice.
I think everyone was a little taken aback when they met her. She was an athletically built woman with short, jet black hair, olive skin, and brown eyes. She was a tour de force who screamed of life and edginess. She was sharp and fearless and passionate. Dad was, in comparison, solid and friendly, if a tad reserved. He was intelligent and exact and respectful. He was passionate, but it ran like a deep well as opposed to her electric fire. His brown hair had been dusty blonde when he was younger and his blue eyes that were clear as the sky.
Despite their stark contrast, they shared a certain kind of strength. They were in synch and they were magnetic. They balanced each other out, but, most importantly, they were partners in all the ways it mattered, and it showed. It was infectious. Everyone became a little more alive that practice.
We went to the Marina afterwards, and Dad ran down an ice cream truck for me. I remember eating clam chowder in a bread bowl, while my parents teased each other and argued about politics. My mom climbed boulders with me, and we compared tidal pools. Dad taught me how to fly a kite. It was a perfect day.