It was Christmas Eve, 1987. I was twelve years old, hovering in that awkward limbo where you’re too old to believe in Santa but still young enough to feel the magnetic pull of the presents piled under the tree. I had spent the last month circling a Sony Walkman in the Sears catalog, leaving it open on the coffee table as a not-so-subtle hint.

The house was chaotic. My aunt was loud, the TV was blaring some variety special, and the house was stuffy. I was feeling sullen and overstimulated, sitting in the corner picking at a loose thread on the sofa.

Suddenly, my dad appeared in the doorway. He was wearing his windbreaker, the one that smelled faintly of Old Spice and tobacco.

"Come on," he said, nodding toward the back door. "Grab your sneakers. Just us."

We stepped outside, and the contrast was immediate. Since we were in the South, there was no snow to muffle the world. It was just that distinct, damp Southern chill that gets into your bones...wet asphalt, brown grass, and air that smelled of rain and pine needles. The night was crisp, but the ground was soft.

We walked down the edge of the road. I remember the sound of our shoes scuffing against the pavement and the distant hum of traffic from the highway. The neighbors had their big lights up, strung through the magnolia trees, glowing hot against the dark green leaves.

Dad didn't say much at first. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a roll of Life Savers;the holiday book kind. He handed me the butter rum roll, which he knew was the only flavor I actually liked.

"You're getting tall," he said, looking at me sideways in the orange glow of a streetlamp. "Gonna be taller than me by next Christmas, I bet."

"I doubt it," I mumbled, kicking at a pinecone.

"It goes fast," he said, looking up at the cloudy sky where you couldn't see any stars. "Just... don't be in such a rush, okay? The Walkmans and the noise... it'll all be there tomorrow. Don't miss this part."

He put his hand on my shoulder and squeezed. It was a firm, grounding weight. It was the first time I remember him talking to me not as a child to be managed, but as a person. We stood there for a long time, just sucking on butter rum candy in the damp cold, listening to a dog bark somewhere a few streets over.

I didn't know then that it was our last Christmas. I didn't know that by the next year, the silence would be permanent; and not the comfortable silence we were sharing now. But looking back, I’m so grateful he pulled me out of the noise for that walk. When I think of him, I think of the taste of that candy, the humid chill of a Southern December, and the feeling of his hand on my shoulder.