Twenty minutes later, Philip pulls up to the entrance doors of Milestone County Airport.
Hunkered against the thrashing rain and snow, I run around to the front of the car and through the electronic doors to the small airport terminal.
Inside, I navigate through a lively mob of busy holiday travelers. I find my father Henry sitting alone near the restrooms surrounded with five bags of luggage.
“How long do you plan to stay?” I ask him, smiling.
He looks up at me through his oversized glasses. He looks pale.
“Who’s influencing you these days, Pop? Lady Gaga?”
“Who in the effing hell is Lady Gaga?” he grunts, pulling himself up off the seat and wrapping me in an old mothball smell.
“Dad, are you feeling all right? You look tired.”
He releases a low grunt and grips his cane. “What do
