My father died about a year ago. I believe I did the grieving that would give meaning to his loss and allow me to move on in life. Lately, he appears at my side when I least expect it.

I should have stopped. 

Just a week ago. It was late at night, driving home from a movie, nary a car in sight. The last stoplight just turned yellow. I could make it by speeding up just a bit. The light turned red in the last few feet. The police car I had not noticed behind me could easily see the color change reflected off the car's white roof.

The young officer, a woman, was kind in her directness, "I stopped you for running that red light". I didn't have to squirm through a gradual confession. I gave her my ID and insurance card and she returned to her car.

Faster than us

As I sat waiting for what seemed a long time, I recalled a time a few years ago when I was driving with my father (with dementia) back from a visit to his sister Alyce in Illinois. This was one of several meaningful trips to visit the people he loved, and the towns that shaped his life (where he was born, graduated high school, got married, and raised his family). I wanted to make those trips while he was still able.

Driving around St. Louis on an outer bypass on a dark, quiet Sunday night we were stopped for speeding. Not that fast, but I had not noticed this was a "work zone" (empty now) with a stiffer penalty. The officer was a kind black man, who only gave me a warning ticket (ironic to me now, having had several black male friends relate their frequent experiences of being stopped for driving while black). But during that lonely wait while he made his report, my father helpfully/unhelpfully kept repeating "The other cars were going faster than us. We weren't going fast." I wanted him to just be quiet and not get us in deeper trouble by antagonizing the officer with his unfiltered comments. I screamed to myself "Dad! Shut up!", but I mustered kinder words, "Dad, please be quiet. I was wrong. I was speeding".

I never dreamed I would recall that moment with wistful tenderness. My father had moments earlier expressed deep appreciation to me about making the trip to see Alyce and other family, and how much it meant to him. That was priceless.

So this ticket, which I have paid, put my father at my side again. That was also priceless.