One of the times I was happiest (that certain happiness you know is now a memory and will never again be found) was driving home from choir with him. It would be in the winter, when the Pacific Northwest nights are freezing and dark, rainy and dreary. We would be sitting in the cab of his truck with the heater blasting hot on our frozen skin and the night wrapped in all around us. We would be driving down the back roads, roads walled in by forest and starlight and silence. Even the space between us in the cab would be dark. And driving down those roads, through the land we both knew so well and loved so deeply, we would be listening to music. It would be Arlo Guthrie, or the Irish Rovers, perhaps the Clancy Brothers. Something folky or something Irish. Something old and timeless with all those old instruments and old voices and old words. A time neither of us saw but both of us still lived in. We would be listening and I would sing along softly and he would sing along proudly and I would watch him through the dark, smiling and seeing that other time. A time only we truly shared, like a secret. A place only we truly knew of, like another world. Riding through the dark, the black trees passing by, and our voices rising and falling. Perfect, always. Fleeting, always. Happiness, always.