She looked so young in those pictures—her skin taut, her face thin.
He’d often take five or six pictures at once in the hopes of getting one right, and if you swiped through them like a flipbook,
Mom’s smile got bigger and smaller, my squirming six-year-old self moved this way or that, but Dad’s face never changed.
When he fell, his headphones were still playing music. I do remember that.
He was listening to some old soul song, and it was coming out of his earbuds loud, his body on its side.
He was just lying there, the lawn mower stopped, not far from the one tree in our front yard.
Mom told me to call 911, and I did. I told the operator my dad had fallen.
She asked if he was breathing, and I asked Mom, and she said no, and the whole time this totally incongruous soul song was crooning tinnily through his earbuds.
Mom kept doing CPR on him until the ambulance came. He was dead the whole time, but we didn’t know.
We didn’t know for sure until a doctor opened the door to the windowless hospital “family room” where we were waiting,
and said, “Did your husband have a heart condition?
Past tense. My favorite pictures of my dad are the few where he’s out of focus—because that’s how people are, really,
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