Q is for Questioning
I was a very inquisitive child, always thinking and asking questions. While it never seemed to bother him, I asked my dad a thousand questions, all the time. I’d ask how light gets into the lampposts and why cars only came in so many colors and why it seemed the sun or moon always followed you. Most of the time, he gave me real answers but he also gave smart-ass answers when it suited him. My favorite yet most infuriating was when I’d ask, “Where are we going?” and he’d answer “Crazy.”
But this is a very vivid memory for me. As previously mentioned, he took me out a lot after dinner and we’d talk in the car. We’d sometimes walk around the block and when I wasn’t finding the coolest stick or racing ahead (only to have to wait for him to catch up) I would ask questions. Where do birds go when it rains? Why are there always nails in the alleys? Why is this one house always dark? He never told me to be quiet or stop talking, which is contradictory to when he was irritated by my actions. Sometimes I spilled my milk or didn’t understand a homework assignment and he was beyond exasperated with me. His anger scared me, probably because he was normally a very calm, controlled person. And when he lost it, he really lost it. But when I was being good and asking those questions, we were best friends.