THE LONG AND WINDING ROAD

Halfway down the drive, I could see my parents standing on the front porch. I parked the car, turned off the engine, and watched them for a second through the bug covered windshield - like a dream or a silent movie I knew would soon fade to black. When I opened the door, a rush of fresh air woke my stuffy road trip with a slap; I automatically gathered the maps, crinkly fast-food bags, and loose change that surrounded me, while fumbling to find the equilibrium I had lost somewhere between the getting there and arriving.

I watched Dad slowly navigate the porch walk's uneven stones with a cane. I could see small cuts on his face from shaving; the chemotherapy had left his skin papery thin. His bald head exaggerated his features - which were now caricatures of the originals. His ears and nose appeared large and doughy in contrast to his downy and delicate skull. His teeth looked fake - like Chiklets in a forced smile. His hazel eyes seemed surprised to have lost their brows. Suddenly Dad looked very small, old, and vulnerable; he was uncomfortable with his new look, and in having me see him like this for the first time.

*an excerpt from my cancer memoir entitled CAR DEALER'S DAUGHTER