It’s almost time for the Super Bowl. Spectators will be watching the game from all over the country, eagerly anticipating the match between the two teams. My dad would watch the Super Bowl, enjoying it with whatever beer was his favorite at the time. Of all the games I watched with my dad, there is only one I remember.

When I close my eyes to reflect on that day, I’m unsure if it was the big game, or just a random one. In the shadows of the memory, I know we are at my grandparents’ home. It’s an overcast winter day, the light slipping in from the window is softly moving with the trees outside. There’s a tv in the corner with a football game on and muffled voices from the kitchen drifting in. The smell of food is wafting through the doorway with the remembrance of the love that emanated there.

By that doorway, my dad is sitting in an overstuffed chair, my grandfather sits across the room from him. Beside dad is the Christmas tree my grandfather chose, with its top bent over, branches flattened against the ceiling, because it was too tall. Its boughs full of ornaments and large lights. Presents that were once wedged beneath the low-lying branches are now gone. The aroma from the tree is still pleasantly filling the space with the scent of pine. Other than the hum of the announcers’ voices, the room is quiet and still.

It’s one of those memories where you feel it, more than you remember it. You know it happened, but everything in your mind when you pull it up “feels” blurry. A fleeting moment that happened so ordinarily simple, routine. Nothing spectacular or extraordinary, just the way childhood is supposed to be. Something about that moment was more than that. It’s as if for a brief moment everything stopped. There was just me and dad. No work or school. No worries or football games.

I had climbed onto my dad’s lap, sitting there with my head against his shoulder. One of those moments you don’t even think about. He was watching the game and I was resting, tired from a busy morning. I don’t know whether he took my hand or I placed mine into his. Unconsciously Dad was gently pushing the tips of my fingers backwards and I was pushing his the other way. My fingers stretching a little farther each time, as far as they would go until they were bent straight back. Both of us surprised at how easily they moved backwards. Then the quiet moment was gone and the football game was the center of attention again. I doubt whether dad ever thought about it, it was just a normal afternoon. I really don’t know why it finds its way through the plethora of memories I have, to suddenly, stealthily say here I am. Forgotten, until I close my eyes, hearing my grandma in the kitchen with mom, grandpa and dad watching the game and seven-year-old me totally unaware of how precious and fleeting those tiny seconds in time are.