had a future people dream about.”
“Maybe I could have gone back.”
He immediately looked at me.
“Then why didn’t you?”
“Because being able to go back and wanting to go back are two different things.”
Dad stared at me.
“I don’t understand.”
“I know.”
That answer hurt him.
For five years, I had been expected to understand him.
His anger.
His disappointment.
His silence.
Now he had to understand me.
His eyes returned to Grandpa’s bag.
“Your grandfather carried that bag into patients’ homes.”
“So do I.”
“He practiced medicine.”
“And what happened after the medical part was finished?”
Dad frowned.
“What do you mean?”
“When Grandpa finished examining someone, what did he do?”
He became quiet.
I knew he remembered.
Grandpa’s house calls always took forever.
The diagnosis might take ten minutes.
Then he would spend another forty showing someone’s spouse how to position pillows properly.
Writing medication
