Jeremy sneezes out the car window when we’re driving. He insists that this is normal, but I’ve never seen anyone else do it. His sneezes come without warning, and in the car they seem ridiculously loud and amusing. Maybe they amplify in the confined space, I don’t know. We’ll be driving along, and suddenly he thrusts his head out the window with an aggressive sneeze that would knock over a backyard full of small children. Every time I dissolve into a fit of giggles.
One time, after such a sneeze, Samuel sincerely asked from the back seat, “Daddy, why are you mad at the trees?”
We all laughed. A content family, enjoying each other. I remember wishing the moment would last forever.
Samuel was pleased with himself for adding to the occasion. In typical little-boy fashion he repeated his joke at every opportunity. Daddy would sneeze, I giggle uncontrollably, and Samuel proudly states that daddy is mad at the trees. Our family joke.
Now when Jeremy sneezes in the car, I smile, but there isn’t any laughter. We share a glance, then stare vacantly out the windows, trying again to absorb the loss of the little voice that is supposed to deliver the punch line.
Sunday morning we headed to church. Jeremy sneezed. I startled like it was a gunshot and almost jumped out of my skin. Jeremy felt terrible, but it wasn’t his fault. I tried to calm down my panic the rest of the way to church.
Apparently my trauma in the car is not limited to reacting to other drivers on the road.
Those satisfied moments I wanted to last forever seem so long ago.