I don't recall what brand of cereal I was eating. But I was at the breakfast table when my brother burst in and howled, "Dad's dead! Dad's dead."
It was stupid. It was Candid Camera. It was the cruelest joke ever. It wasn't even real.
Then Mom staggered in with an ashen expression that didn't register in my world.
When the prayer cards, flowers, and food arrived I lay at the top of the stairs and listened. Sifting through piles of Lego, eyes turned to the television, I tuned in to everything they said about "the accident."
Dad was riding his bike to work. The driver swerved out of the lane, struck dad with his wicked jacked up Ford F-250 and fled. He later returned to the scene when it was too late. Two days later we buried Dad on his 38th birthday.