A terminal illness gives you the gift of knowing there isn’t a moment to waste, but it doesn’t prepare you for all the moments you’ll be unable to share.
You only just left, Dad. It’s only been a few weeks, but the waves that grief travels in make the tears swift, violent, unpredictable. I am fine, then suddenly, in the middle of the produce aisle, I am doubled over in tears.
I know your last weeks were filled with pain, Dad. …
How the iconic sound of the classic Beetle evokes my father’s love.
When I was a baby and I couldn’t sleep, my Dad would strap me in to his ’76 VW Beetle and take a drive. The rumble of its engine would lull me to slumber usually within two blocks, sometimes a little longer.
When I was a little older, my Dad had a ’77 VW Beetle — a cheerful yellow with black seats, and no less magical than the first Beetle. There wasn’t a problem in the world a ride in the VW couldn’t fix. Bad day at school? Hop in the Beetle for a ride to the Fair Oaks Pharmacy for an old-timey soda fountain treat. Argue with my best friend? Jump in the Beetle and head to my favorite gothic/horror bookstore, Dark Delicacies, talking out the problem with my Dad. …
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