Eight Years

Almost exactly 8 years ago to the day and hour, I, tired from not sleeping and feeling outside of myself, got on a plane in Detroit to come home to Fresno. I’d been at work when my brother first called. Dad was in the hospital, he said, but not to worry about it. Probably just the flu, he said, and dad didn’t even want him to call. He was going to get a shot in the butt of something strong and flu-killing and then he’d go home and sleep it off. That was January 12, 2003. Roughly 2 in the afternoon in Ohio, where I lived. Last I’d talked to him was a week before. Sunday. I used to call every Sunday just to check in and make sure they remembered me. Dad was sick then too, had taken some … Continue reading