When I was a child, there wasn't one car ride that didn't lull me to sleep after half an hour or so. I'd always lay my head on the edge of the window, staring into the sky, and feel the humming of our car's engine against the side of my forehead as I closed my eyes. When my naps do last the whole trip, that's when my dad would carry me, gently, making sure his kid's dreams were undisturbed, and head straight for my bed, like a fox in the night. But rarely, I would end up faking it instead so that I get to be carried effortlessly again, safe and sound.
Yet out of all the naps I've had, no nap has ever been harder for me to wake up to than the night I would hear my dad's motorcycle roar one last time. Our neighborhood was normally noisy, but my father's voice is what prompted me to come to my senses. I wished that time could have gone faster than it already was. From the ceiling to the walls to the tears raging to come out of my mom's eyes, I noticed.
And I noticed, that my dad was carrying something else than a sleepy child. As simple as a luggage bag it was, I wished he'd carried it along as quietly as he did with me, so that I didn't have to hear its wheels hitting the metal door when he left his shoeprints at the doorstep.