I have a confession to make.
I had not driven a car since my father’s death.
Before I started working again, in the months leading up to it, I barely drove for several years.
But it stormed Sunday. It stormed a lot.
My husband is not a snow driver.
I’ve grown up in Canada, Iowa, Pennsylvania.
I crumple in the day-to-day sometimes.
Most times.
Showering? Cooking? Brushing my hair?
Hard things.
But I was born in a snowstorm. The snow wasn’t falling yet, when my father claimed he saw an angel, telling him to leave. To make it to the hospital, before the storm.
He left, and the storm came on quickly.
The country roads became fields of white, no telling where the road ended and ditch began.
But they made it. They stayed in a hotel in the city for a day or so I believe. And then all the roads from our tiny town to the city were closed. And my mother went into labor. They got to the hospital.
So on Sunday, my husband’s friend helped me get our tiny car up their icy driveway and onto the road. Much like the car my father would’ve driven – not meant for this weather.
And though the snow came quickly I remembered what to do. I drove us home.
Dad, I got us home.
I love you and I miss you. There is never enough time.
Laughs and Lobotomies 