by Michael Shields
“What is it?” I asked to her voice trembling on the other end of the phone.
“It’s dad,” my mother managed. Little else needed to be said, and I would be damned if I’d make her relive what had just occurred.
“I’m on my way,” I spat with conviction; cloaking deranged terror with reassuring bravado. I would learn moments later on a phone call with my brother that my father had fallen while jogging. His second serious heart attack in nearly as many months. This one would have stole him if not for unfathomable luck in the form of a passerbyer with a defibrillator. What are the odds? But the situation was dire. “Prepare yourself for the worst,” I was told. As if one ever could.