“C’mon, Dad, I don’t wanna be late.”
“Sorry, I can’t move much faster.”
Sometimes I almost forget that he has a prosthesis for a left foot. The morning of June 21st is fresh and promising as Dad folds himself into the driver’s seat of our Honda Accord and brings me to school for the basketball clinic.
“Dad, do you ever think about what it would be like to have both feet again?”
He stays silent, staring at the road. I look down at my hands. Maybe I shouldn’t have asked.
My dad can be strange at times, even secretive. I remember once I stumbled upon a box when we were cleaning out the attic. It was padlocked. I asked him what was inside it. What was so important that it had to be locked? Dad just said it was nothing, but he wouldn’t open it, and later I saw him stash it in a corner unde
