Earlier this month, after running errands for the following day's family get-together, I was driving north on Capilano Road when I approached a red light at the Ridgewood Drive intersection, close to my home. First in line was a sedan, followed by a black pickup truck, then me. After the light turned green, the sedan was not quick enough off the mark as far as the truck driver was concerned, so they gave a short honk. It had only been a matter of maybe two seconds, but as far as the truck driver was concerned, that wait was too long.
I can also be impatient behind the wheel at times, but a honk two seconds in was pushing it. I was instantly reminded of my son. Mike had also had a pickup truck and liked to travel fast. It flashed through my mind that he too may have honked in that situation. Smiling to myself while slowly shaking my head from side to side with a silent 'oh Mike', I started following the traffic up the hill. Moments later, I noticed the truck's license plate: MG 8600 which I immediately read as Michael Gibson, born in '86, and now no longer here. By the time I turned into my driveway, I was laughing and flooded with gratitude for this opportunity to add one more occurrence to my long list of fabulous experiences of feeling connected to my son.