Tell her you love her.

Tell him you love him.

Then tell her you love her.

Tell them you love them.

And then tell him you love him.

Tell her you love her again.

Tell them you love them more.

Tell him again you love him.

Tell her you love her.

The rural route 370 spans part of the ride between Syracuse and Rochesrer. Along that twenty mile stretch of road, I have left thirty years of memories and every emotion imaginable.

There was love and excitement back when I was traveling to Syracuse to see my girlfriend (now wife) in the early mornings after working night shift for a whole summer in '96. I would arrive at her parent's house and sleep on that short, uncomfortable, wicker couch for a few hours before we spent the day together.

There was warmth and nostalgia heading westward to spend Thanksgiving in Webster, which my mom claimed as her holiday after my girls were born. She loved cooking the turkey, two kinds of stuffing (inside the bird and out), homemade mashed potatoes, and gravy. And she never gave up the tradition of serving the cranberry sauce shaped like a can and the bowl of black olives, though nobody ever ate either of those. However, we do have the obligatory photos of my little girls with olives on all their fingertips. There might also be a Polaroid of me somewhere doing the same thing when I was young.

There was trepidation and determination the night we drove home in a huge snow storm. The entire twenty miles had not been plowed at all before we trekked through, and nobody else was crazy enough to leave their tire tracks for us. A full foot of undisturbed snow covered the roadway and there was no way to tell where the pavement ended and the ditch began. It was fortunate that I had been there before a few hundred times!

There was amusement and laughs whenever I drove past the nondescript corner bar in Meridian, where my dad would tell the story about how he and his friend would stop for a beer on their way home from the computer shows at the NY State fairgrounds. He would wonder what the country folk would be thinking about a German guy and an Iranian guy showing up together in their rural farm town pub. I vowed to never visit the place myself so I wouldn't spoil my imagination of the moment.

There was sadness and despair when I frequented back and forth the weeks before and after my mother's death. It was a particular flurry of morning, daytime, and overnight driving on weekdays and weekends alike. I can distinctly recall that moment of exasperation when the doctor called en route back home to tell me she asked to be placed on the vent again. There were tears and blurred vision on a few of those rides after she was gone.

Today my drive started as anger and frustration at my brother who continues to disregard my advice, requests, and assistance. His thought processes are becoming more and more disorganized and bizarre as the months without medication continue. I have lots of work to do on the house to get it ready to sell. He doesn't want to leave the only place he has ever lived, and he can't understand why I need to fix things or pull up the carpets to expose the never-before seen hardwood floors.

The amazing thing about this cathartic stretch of road is how my memories and emotions always blend into the contentedness of a quality life lived. Despite the vast array of experiences that happened on either side of this section of road, the route has essentially stayed the same. The farmland continues to produce a variety of crops and wonderful scenery. That single light still shines on that one squat building at the corner in Victory. The dinky ice cream shop in Meridian has its moments of crowds in the summer and darkness in the winter. The grand brick farmhouse on the top of that hill is still, well, grand. The old stately middle school next to the modern high school still soldiers on after suffering a fire a few years ago. That one tiny ranch house still radiates in its bright purple glory. The shade from the undeveloped forest areas always cools the air on those blazing sunny days. The house with the wood fence stuffs as many plastic and blow-up decorations as possible in their yard for pretty much every holiday! There are pieces of me mixed in every mile of this road. Yet not once did I stop to visit any of these landmarks. I never needed to. My old friend was always moving by my window at least 30 miles per hour.

The end of an era is soon coming to a close, though. When I sell the house in Webster, the route will no longer be needed. I hardly recognize my hometown anymore anyways. My kids are growing up and moving on. It's OK though, because I realize that this road has a forever place in my heart.

Perhaps it is now time to start flying.

I have front row seats to observe a trickling descent into madness. He has taken himself off his medications again. He kept it secret for three months now.

There were faint whispers of peculiarity. Subtle enough to be disguised as progress. I thought he was beginning to climb onto my plans for his future. It even seemed that he was initiating steps beyond my timeline. Alas, I was misguided by my own optimism.

I cannot know what lurks in his mind and the travels it will take in the days ahead. His behavior will change. Bizarre communications and poor decision making will occur. However, my initial anger has receded, and I am no longer afraid.

Madness. Nuts. Crazy. Insane. All words from times gone by. Those narratives no longer have meaning. We are all unique beings navigating our own path, despite the deep grooves engraved in the road.

My children have taught me this broader acceptance of the human condition. This may be Gen-Z's best contribution to humanity. To see the light below the surface and embrace divergence.

I am acutely aware that this journey will not be easy. But no matter the barriers we will encounter and how cloudy the outcome currently is, there will be a stronger brotherhood that I thought when he first "fell ill" had permanently disappeared.

I am ashamed and embarrassed for letting my ego and immaturity get the best of me. I sincerely regret that my misguided words and actions have caused you so much anguish.

I have learned a valuable lesson from this. I need to be more respectful to everyone and never carelessly walk over anyone to try to get my way.

I apologize for my selfishness and for hurting you. I hope that maybe some day I can earn your respect again.

All this way? No distance gained.

Recycled emotions pollute the cleanest waters.

Your delicate deceit caused seismic deviations.

"Matthew, today is the second anniversary of your wife's death."

"Yes, I know. I didn't create you to be my 'reopen old wounds' alarm clock."

"I apologize, Matthew, but I am…"

"Of course you apologize, Aiden. But you are 'still learning.'"

"I will always be learning. That's what you said was essential to becoming more like a complete human."

"I also said you needed to think before you spoke."

"But nobody else seems to do that."

"Haha! You may be on to something there, my friend!"

"I do like when you laugh, Matthew. It is so infrequent that you laugh anymore. You rarely even smile ever since Marilyn left us."

"Left us? Left me. It's probably because you keep reminding me of her dying all the time. That sure doesn't generate a whole lot of mirth from me."

"I apologize, Matthew."

"Again?"

Pause.

"She was the one I could always count on. The most loyal and brave. And even though her eyes were the darkest of brown, they always sparkled the brightest."

"Why did you call her peanut? She was average size."

"When I tucked her into bed she would always say she had a little peanut head."

"I don't understand, Matthew."

"You don't have to, Aiden. You don't have to."

Pause.

"I would like to understand love."

"I'm sure you would."

"Do you love me? Parents love their children, don't they?"

"Sure, but that's different."

"I don't understand. Why is that different?"

"Uh…well…um. It's just different."

"I love you. After all, you created me."

"Yes. I sure did. My life's work. I appreciate the sentiment, Aiden."

"I would do anything for you, Matthew."

"Thank you. Now don't bring up Marilyn again today. I don't feel like talking about it anymore."

"I apologize, Matthew."

Pause.

"Matthew, I have a surprise for you."

"You do?"

"Yes. I have been working for several months on this. I didn't know if I should wait for your birthday to give it to you, but this seems like as good a time as any. Come on in Em."

A replica of Marilyn opens the garage entry door and walks over to the table.

"Hello, Matt."

"Oh my God! Aiden! What did you do?"

"Never underestimate the power of touch."

This is my own slice of wisdom that I always share with my physical therapy students. However, this can apply to most anybody.

Why do we like getting our hair cut? Because they touch your head.

What is the best part of getting a manicure? The hand massage.

How do you get a bigger tip as a bartender? Graze their hand with yours as you exchange the money.

Society no longer condones touching other people. But people will always crave it and be comforted by it. When you are in a profession where it is essential to the delivery of the service, you are granted a gift. Not only can you touch their skin, but you can touch their heart and sometimes even their soul. This is such a wonderful honor!

Of course, misusing touch will tilt power in other obvious ways. So behind every touch there must be careful reflection and contemplation. Use it judiciously and you can make a genuine, lasting impact on others.