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I drove to work with an old song on my lips, touching off one of my most pleasant memories:

On many dark, chilly Colorado evenings, our young family would walk outside to say goodbye to grandparents who had driven over from a nearby city. I would lift our little daughter up on my left shoulder to wave as they drove away. From there, I would push her toward the night sky and sing, "Fly me to the moon, and let me play among the stars." She stretched out toward the stars, making us both believe she could almost touch them.

On those glorious nights, I couldn't remember the rest of the lyrics sung by my father's favorite, Frank Sinatra, but it didn't matter. Memories are funny things.