My young son is bored on a quiet Sunday. He decides to play in his father’s (the coolest) car.
I stand by monitoring him. Just a safety precaution.
I look down at the passenger’s seat and see an appointment card.
I squint at the details and realize the date of the appointment was on my father’s birthday. Eight years ago.
He died before his next flight physical.
I cleaned out his personal papers when we bought the car from my mother the week after his crash. Each object a reminder of catastrophic loss.
His Gideon Bibles. The gospel cd in the dash. I kept the faded stickers from his job.
But I have never seen this card before.
I want to call the number on the card. I want to ask the doctor if he remembers my dad. Just reminisce, you know…Does HIPAA apply to the dead?
I don’t believe in death that way. I don’t believe it is final. And this card seems to prove it.
One or both of my dads just dropping a note to his little girl–
I am here. I am still here.
All of our Palm Sundays…