I heard yesterday, from a talking head on television, that every minute someone in this country dies from cardiac arrest. One minute, in the year 1995, the person that died was my father. He died while walking toward his flight gate in the concourse at the airport in Honolulu, Hawaii.
He collapsed outright. Little man gone.
Nine hours later, my father’s luggage arrived in Spokane, Washington. The luggage circled round and round on the baggage carousel, unclaimed.
A few hours after that, my phone rang.
What to do?
I don’t know, you bastards.