take me to the river, Dad

I remember the 1982 gray Dodge Ram Van, splattered with rust spots and fingerprints.  I remember my butterball legs climbing the mountain step and reigning over the backseat in my special throne.  I could barely see the outside.  I could barely see through the dashboard, but I could see him; in the driver's seat, window down, Black Irish forearm tapping rhythm into the front door.  His thick chocolate hair dancing in the hot summer air.  The August exhale that curled and teased through the only window that went down.  Of course his window was the one that worked.  So it goes, Vonnegut. 
There was Off the Wall, New York, and Excitable Boy.  There were tape cassettes and maybe a few eight-tracks left.   He still smoked then.  Marlboro Reds.  Chain smoked, actually.  One lit butt after the next.  Inhale, exhale, flick, light again. 
Once in awhile, I would catch his ice blue eyes in the rear view mirror.  When they were angry, I looked away. I hid.  I was quiet. 
When they were laughter and love, he would ask me, "What's next?".
My sisters would sigh.
My mother would laugh.
And he always let me choose, though they all knew what I would say.
"River song, Daddy. Play me the River song."
And he did.
No matter how many times we had already heard it.  No matter how much my family wished I would find a new favorite.
And I would scream delight in every word.  Every lyric.  Every sound.
He loved me then.

So it goes, Dad.  So it goes.