I waited at the top of the stairs as he closed the front door.
Halfway up, I handed over the card I bought him.
“Thanks,” he said.
He didn’t need to open it to know what it was.
Bowling was always his thing.
“Now I can die a happy man,” he said.
The brutal honesty that comes with acceptance is enough to paralyze most people.
Three months into treatment and six months before the end, with Antimetabolites, Alkylating agents, Topoisomerase inhibitors and Anthracyclines pumping through his veins, my father bowled a perfect game.
These miracles grace us in tiny, temporary doses. And I’ll never need another.