They put me in the car, brought me coffees, and held my hand while we waited for news.
When the doctor came to say that he was out of danger, we all breathed a sigh of relief together, like one big family.
Today, I am 90 years old, and I am writing this story at my small kitchen table. My “motorcycle passenger” jacket is hanging next to my Sunday coats. My helmet sits on the sideboard, next to the old photo of Paul.
Marc called me earlier. Next Tuesday, weather permitting, we’re going to see an old lighthouse he discovered by the sea. He’s already planned to drive even more slowly “because the cardiologist is keeping an eye on things.”
Sophie still worries about my “motorcycle phase,” as she calls it, but she’s learned to keep quiet. My grandchildren, on the other hand, boast at school about having
