I remember that night you met my dad.
     I'd packed it away,
                  like one of the boxes that mom put in the storage locker,
         only to one day bring it back
when I need it most.

I'm not sure I need it most now,
                                             but here it is.
I remember after dinner,
my dad talked to us for about an hour.
And I told him we were going for a walk,
because he was a little drunk,
       and he loved to tell his stories.
I remember standing at the lookout,
                             my arm around your waist;
I knew I loved you then,
     but I didn't say it.
That was a perfect moment,
                           forever in my memory

But if I had known it was the first and last time
you'd meet my dad,
I'd never have mentioned that walk.

For another average moment with both
                            you and my dad,

             I'd throw away that perfect walk,
that beautiful sunset.