Weight of Small Moments

May 2026

This weekend, I watched my children and my dad truly connect with each other. They’ve been in the same space before, but this time it went beyond polite coexistence—it felt real. Especially with my son, there was a genuine bond forming in a way I hadn’t seen before.

We spent the weekend doing little things. Talking. Walking around the property. Watching my son’s curiosity attaches itself to everything my dad touched. It reminded me so much of being a kid that it almost caught me off guard. I forgot how magnetic your father can seem when you're young. How larger than life he feels. How badly you want to be included in whatever he's doing.

My dad always had that effect on me. Then came the tractor. It was the very last thing we did. Almost like he was saving the best for last.

The second he pulled it around; I wasn't just standing there as a father anymore. Suddenly I was a kid again. I could almost feel the memories waking up inside me before I even climbed on. The sound of the engine. The smell of dirt and diesel fuel. The excitement of hearing my dad yell to me to: “Hop on.”

Growing up, I idolized my dad. And standing there watching him teach my son how to drive that tractor brought all of it rushing back at once. It reminded me people are more complicated than a single story

My son was smiling from ear to ear, completely locked into that moment. My dad was showing him what levers did what, how to put it in gear. How to ease it forward. The difference between hydrostatic gear shifting and the clutch system that I grew up on. How to maneuver the bucket. Most of all, how to drive it safely.

And there I was, just standing there. Watching both. Feeling like I stepped into two moments at once. Seeing my son looking at my father the same way I did as a kid, reviving the feelings I forgot were still alive.

I saw my childhood. I saw my son making his own memories. And somewhere in the middle of all of that, I nearly cried.

Not because the moment was sad. Because it was so full. Full of memory. Full of love. Full of time passing faster than I want it to.

Some memories don't disappear – they just wait for the right moment to come alive again. I thought I was watching my son make a memory, I didn't realize that I was reliving one.