The Big Curve
The last time I saw my father he was wearing a toupee that looked like a year's worth of dryer lint, a worn-out Carolina t-shirt, the blue almost white now, green golfing shorts, and penny loafers with actual pennies in them. No socks. He was waving at my wife and me as we drove away in the car he had just given us; he said he wouldn't be needing it anymore. I watched him in the rear view mirror until he stopped waving, his arm slowly dropping to his side, and then watched him watch us as we disappeared around the big curve, the hairpin, where who knows how many lives had been lost – lost we called them, as if they might be found again one day. I told my wife, When I was kid we weren't allowed beyond the Big Curve on our bikes, he thought it was just too dangerous. Always had to turn around when we got here, go back home.
Not this time.