Listening to Van Halen on the Backroads

We're driving.
Well...You're driving.

You're taking the back roads.
We're going to a place that I've been to before.

You're the quiet type.
You only ever say what you mean when you're drunk.
It's one of the many reasons why she loves you.

I know that you would do anything for me.
It's part of your job description.
You are protector and guide.
You spoil me, and make me smile.
You give me whatever I want on a whim.
I never really ask for anything.
I'm just not the type.

We don't talk much.
What we say is idle. Meaningless.
The music is what I grew up with.
There haven't been many car rides like this.
These are few and treasured.

You buy me a strawberry shake from Sonic.
I ask for a small, and you give me a large.
I laugh inwardly, but I don't mention it.

My thoughts are wandering everywhere.
You make me think of the future.
You make me think of things
that a sixteen year old doesn't really have to think about.

I still remember things, too.
I remember a New Years party last year.
You were plastered.
You came up to me and draped your arm around my shoulder.
'I love you, Baby Girl.'
'I love you, too, Grandpa.'
You smile at me, and I gag on your beer breath.
I laugh anyway.
You are who you are.

Grandma smiles at me.
I'm just like her, and still so different.

We're driving to meet her
at one of your favorite restauraunts.
We're almost there and suddenly
there are so many things that I wish I could say.
So many laughs that I wish we could share.

But you're the quiet type
and I'm not the type to ask for much.
You always give me more than I ask for anyway.
We arrive. We eat. We're leaving.
I'm going with grandma.
It's time to go home.
'Goodbye, Baby Girl.'
'Goodbye, Grandpa.'