I was nine years old. My dad woke me up at 4:47am on February 15, 1988. The house was dark and cold. We got dressed quickly—I remember my mom handing me a navy parka and my red mittens. The walk to Kensington Road took maybe ten minutes. When we got there, maybe a hundred people were already gathered, stamping their feet against the cold. It was minus thirty-two Celsius. Our breath was white. Everything was quiet, like we were waiting for something sacred. The streetlights cast an orange glow on the empty road ahead. My dad stood behind me, his hands on my shoulders. He was wearing the old Stampeders jacket he still owns. I could feel him trembling—I didn't know if it was from the cold or from something else. Then we heard it: sirens in the distance. The crowd stirred. Everyone turned toward the sound. A moment later, the first support vehicle came around the corner, lights flashing. And then: the torch. I've never seen anything burn so bright. The runner carrying the flame came down the center of Kensington Road, and the whole street erupted. Strangers were crying. A woman next to us screamed "That's Calgary!" My dad lifted me up—I was tall for my age, almost too heavy—but he lifted me anyway so I could see. The runner's face was set with concentration. The flame danced in the cold air, impossibly bright against the darkness. I remember my dad's voice in my ear: "Remember this forever." The runner passed. The cheers continued for maybe thirty seconds after they disappeared around the next corner. People hugged each other. We stood there for a long time after, nobody wanting to leave. On the walk home, my dad held my hand the entire way. We didn't talk much. I still drive past that spot on Kensington Road sometimes. I pull over and remember standing there with my dad, watching the world come to Calgary. I'm 55 now. My dad passed away three years ago. That moment is the clearest memory I have of him—the way he held my shoulders, the sound of his voice, the cold air burning my lungs as I cheered. That's what the torch relay gave me: a perfect, crystalline memory with the person I loved most in the world.