Dad had just gone up the driveway in a maroon colored body-bag: thick plastic with a quiet nylon zipper - reminding me of an insulated pizza delivery bag used to keep orders warm upon arrival. I had watched him go up the driveway in shiny black cars my entire life - leaving too often, but never for always.
I sat with my mother at the front porch picnic table; we didn't say a word, but smiled at one another the way people do who just survived a disaster - happy to have pulled through, but fully aware of the loss. I was relieved I would no longer have to helplessly watch my father being tossed against the rocks, pulled under the white water, and sent over the falls, but I couldn't help thinking how my mother was next. This was one of those clearly marked moments in time that fits squarely between past and future. My five stages of grief had overlapped, and were all out of order.
*an excerpt from my cancer memoir entitled CAR DEALER'S DAUGHTER
