Category: The Road Home

I pined for a Schwinn Stingray. A sleek banana seat and raised handlebars. Looking back, I know my reasoning fell on the deaf ears of a police officer father who had just two boxes to check when it came to acquiring a bicycle for his 8-year-old daughter. Safety and economy. The boxes got checked with

There’s nothing as personal as going through a man’s wallet after he’s died. The worn black leather wallet felt heavy in my hands. Filled with the cards and treasures of a man who valued information, and connections. His wallet was a microcosm of his life and home. Stuffed full of the useful, no longer useful,

Now that he’s gone, I sometimes regret my impatience. But only sometimes. I felt like a hostage more than a passenger when he decided to go on a driving tour. I cut myself some slack now because it was never a mutual decision nor an invitation to come along. How much more meaningful it would

It was a production like all the things that mattered to him. It was his job, and he did it well. No one else could do it. Like cutting the grass or cooking meat on the grill.  Thin sheets of plastic and newspapers draped all around. The smell and the mess, I have to wonder