Ta Da

There’s nothing that makes you more self-conscious about your driving than having your toddler babbling happily in the backseat, completely unaware of the sweat gathering on your palms as they grip the steering wheel.

Even if it is a road you’ve known your entire life.

There is a stoplight in our hometown that I’ve approached countless times over the years—in the backseat, in the passenger seat, and now, on this particular day, from behind the wheel.

Waiting at this familiar intersection, my eyes bounced between the rearview mirror, where I could see my son, and the traffic light controlling the cross traffic.

Cars streamed through the green light I was watching.

I glanced back at my son.

Their light turned yellow.

Something in me shifted.

Their light turned red.

My eyes darted to our own red light and, without thinking, I whispered under my breath,

“Green.”

Not a moment later, it did.

“Ta-da,” I laughed to my son, my grip loosening on the steering wheel.

As we drove through the intersection, I realized it wasn't a reflex that had taken over.

It was a memory.

What feels like a lifetime ago, at this very intersection–Seven-Eleven on one corner, chickens wandering across the road on the other–my father and I waited at this same red light. Sitting in the passenger seat, my mind wandered as the radio became white noise and the passing cars blended into the background. I remember thinking, “Wow, I’m big enough to sit in the front seat now! And I, like all the grown-ups in their cars, know how to wait my turn. Nothing to do until the light turns green, and we can’t do anything about that.” 

That’s when, out of nowhere, he did it. 

“Green.” 

I turned toward my dad, assuming I heard him wrong. The word didn’t have time to leave my mouth, “Wha-”. I noticed my dad had his finger pointing toward our red light. In the time it took me to realize he’d said something, hear it, and comprehend it, I had looked up–and the light had turned green. 

I was stunned. My almost-double-digit-old brain ran rampant, “How could he control the light? It’s outside of his hands! Outside of this car! Oh my–he’s magic. My dad’s magic.” 

Of course, I asked him how he did it, and like a true magician, he refused to share his secret, which only made the trick all the more alluring. 

What he did say was, “Ta da.”

Years went by, my dad taught me how to drive, I got my license, and before long, I was behind the wheel at that intersection by myself. At this point, certain routes became routine, reflex, nothing new. I paid more attention to road hazards than I did magic tricks or car games. But that didn’t mean my father’s driving hadn’t quietly become my own. 

Without realizing it, I began driving the way he did. I checked over my shoulder before changing lanes in the same way. I leaned forward to see around blind corners. At traffic lights, my eyes drifted to the cross traffic, waiting for their green to turn yellow... then red... knowing ours would be next.

Somewhere along the way, without either of us noticing, he'd passed his magic down to me.

For years, I thought one of my dad's greatest tricks was turning the light green. Then, for a little while, I thought his greatest trick was teaching me to do the same.

It was neither.

His greatest magic trick was showing me how love gets handed down—not through grand lessons, but through ordinary moments repeated often enough that they become part of who you are.

A shoulder check.

A glance at cross traffic.

A whimsical "Ta-da."

One habit at a time.

From one seat over.

Then one day, without realizing it, you hear their voice as your own.

“Green.”

My shoulders relaxed. My hands loosened around the steering wheel.

In the rearview mirror, my son smiled as we rolled through the intersection.

“Ta-da!”

A few minutes later, we were pulling into my parents’ driveway. My dad was already coming out the front door waiting for us, as though he’d somehow known we were close. 

I smiled. 

Maybe he really is magic. 

He always has been.