Come on, dad! Let’s go! I wrap my little fingers around his hand and use my entire body weight to drag him toward the McDonald’s entrance doors.

My energy at the age of five is uncontrollable at the thought of chicken nuggets, fries, and the latest McDonald’s toy. As we wait in the longest line of my entire life, I dream of the play land, a ball pit, and games while tugging frantically at my father’s jeans. My dark-haired father then carries our food to a nearby booth but I grab one chicken nugget and plop it in my mouth, running toward the doors to McDonald’s play set. I hear my father’s voice but do not think to turn back and notice him sitting by himself with bags underneath his eyes.

I am now twelve years old, running down a basketball court with seconds to spare. My head thinks fast, but my feet are faster as I dart down the court, dribbling the ball without any defense by my side to stop me. The clock is ticking and I do not waste any time to see my parents’ reaction as I take the final shot. I hear my mother and father’s voice yell my name but do not think of the cracks in their voice as the ball leaves my fingertips. Their voice is drown out by cheering, I do not think of anything else but the overwhelming crowd calling my name.

Flash forward to three years later and I am sitting in the front seat of my mother’s car, begging her to let me stay. She parks near the front entrance of the high school building and I stare it, wondering how I am supposed to call it home for the next four years. I bury my head into her shoulder and ask her to hold my hand and walk me to the door like dad did when I was in kindergarten. She does not, telling me it is a part of growing up and drops me off with tear droplets crowding the corners of her green eyes. My vision then becomes blurry as I watch her vehicle’s headlights fade amongst the ongoing traffic.

I went through the next four years of high school without realizing that as I got older, both of my parents were growing old too. While I was outgrowing my father’s lap and my mother’s arms, I did not stop to notice the gray strands appearing on their heads, the piling medicine in the cabinet, or the knots in their shoulders. Instead, I spent a majority of my teenage years arguing with them, not understanding how they could be too tired to take me to the movies or pick me up from a friend’s house. I was too busy trying to grow up that I never noticed the pressure of their sixty hour work week or the challenge of raising four children in one household. I never stopped to look at the bags beneath their eyes, the discoloration in their veins or wrinkles in their smile or skin that have formed over the last several years.

Then, I did not realize that they will someday be gone.

But now I do.

I begin to memorize the way it sounds when they come home from work. I hear my father’s heavy footsteps, his lunch bucket hitting the kitchen counter, and his keys jingling in his pocket. I hear the garage door open and I recognize my mother’s car and the way her voice sounds when she greets the dog as soon as she opens the front door. I freeze myself in time to collect these moments that will soon enough become just memories.

I then stand in the kitchen before them, greeting them and already spewing about my day at work and school. I rant about how I never should have grown up and beg my mother to hold my hand at my next doctor’s appointment and ask my father to take me to McDonald’s once more like we used to so I can pretend to be a kid again.

He does and I am nineteen. His hair is now gray and I link arms with him to hold him up as we walk toward McDonald’s doors. This time, I do not run and I do not want a McDonald's toy, play set, or ball pit.

I just want him and my mother to be around forever.