My father, Frank, never talked about death.
Even after the doctors told him pancreatic cancer would likely take him within 6 months, he kept asking about my tires, his tomato plants, and whether I’d remembered to change the furnace filter.
Six months suddenly felt impossibly short for all the things I still wanted to ask him.
He made it four.
During those final months, my brothers visited when they could.
I visited every day. I drove him to appointments, picked up his prescriptions, and cooked meals he rarely managed to eat.Sometimes we’d spend an entire afternoon sitting on his porch without saying much at all.
Toward the end, silence became easier than pretending everything would be okay.
Looking back, I realize there was one thing he never mentioned.
Garage B12.
Not once.
That garage had been part of my life for as long as I could remember.