My dad: 35 and dead
And then, just like that, he is gone. Thirty-five and dead.
And just like that, we go on. Or, try to. Three of us stumbling through that first year. My mother, thirty-three, a widow now. My brother and I, eight and six, 1970.
A death, quick. Abrupt. Unwitnessed. Mysterious.
The parking lot. That morning. I am on my bike, my new two-wheeler, riding in circles in the parking lot of the Kroger grocery store. My mother has sent me out. Or have I chosen to leave?