I’m driving north on I-95. The asphalt rushes beneath my tires, and when the speedometer hits eighty, the steering wheel vibrates in my hands, this little sedan protesting. The trees along the interstate burn orange and gold, and the northern half of the East Coast stretches ahead of me. I’m driving north on I-95 in October, which means I feel like someone is dying.
My stepfather’s death two years ago, in 1998, was quick. In September he drank his coffee every morning, went to work as a chiropractor, and treated patients with crooked spines. In October he stayed in bed. By November 1 we’d buried him. That’s not exactly true. We cremated him, and a few days later my mother received the ashes in a cream-colored pot that we couldn’t open. I tried. The lid wouldn’t budge. I was twenty.
