There was nothing memorable about the day. It was not an anniversary. I had not had a recent conversation about my dad. Frankly, it was a Sunday and my brain was slowly moving out of its Sunday morning political talk show hangover and into the loathsome preparation for Monday morning. And then I walked by an MG parked along the street.

As quickly as my mind processed the sight of the car, it went to the day when my brother accidentally (will give him the benefit of the doubt) slammed my finger in the door of our forest green MG. The one thing which eclipsed the volume of my pained shriek was the vocalization of my father’s rage.

There was no blood, and no damage to my finger, but those facts did not constrain the infamous Hickey temper. My brother and I, like my father, react to unfortunate situations with anger, a fair measure of door slamming and an even greater measure of language inappropriate for mixed company.

Why? I could blame it on the Irish heritage, but that would be too easy. It might be accurate too, but that is beside the point.

Speaking from experience, I know Dad was not angry at me for getting my finger caught in the door. Nor was he angry at Tom for catching m digit in the door. His anger had not purpose except to express frustration at something that was out of his control – the pain of a child.

I imagine it is a feeling to which many parents can relate. Some parents react, like my father, with anger. Others, are more sanguine and internalize their emotions. When my father died, I do not recall my grandmother becoming bitter or angry. I was too young to notice any real change. When I got older, however, the effect of losing her only son became more visible.

It is not hard to recognize that she was less complete after that day in February when she said good-bye to her youngest. That day in February, part of her died as well. When Nana got older and her memory began to show the wear and tear of time, she would often call my brother my Dad’s name. While they did indeed share the same physical characteristics, I think her mind went back to a time when she was complete. A more comfortable and natural time.

I continue to be struck by how my mind works in similar ways. I was not thinking about Dad when I saw that MG on the street. He does not have to be on my mind when I catch a glimpse of a middle-aged man with silver hair and immediately think of him. I like to think that it is Dad’s way of poking me in the shoulder to remind me he is still with me. That he still watches over me. That he still loves me.

With Denver right around the corner, I am going to need that temper to get me through the pain, his stubbornness to get me to the next mile, and the knowledge that he is with me to get me across the finishing line.

Of course what I could really use is a ride across the finishing line in a forest green MG.