It was an ordinary day. I was sitting in front of my laptop, tweaking my manuscript, making it publish-worthy. There was very little writing being done, more self-critiquing and deleting of words, a hundred at a time.
It was after lunch when my phone rang. My friend's frantic voice told me her father had been found on the couch, unconscious. He had been rushed to the hospital in an ambulance, and that she was headed there with her younger brother.
Less than an hour later, we were all gathered in the hospital's emergency room. My friend was crying. Her father had died of a heart attack. His third. Her elder brother had rushed to go home to retrieve their father's wallet. It contained his senior citizen's card, which entitled him to a 20% discount at the hospital.
My friend's brother arrived moments later, eyes bloodshot, hair disheveled. He handed her a tan leather wallet, the very same one my friend had bought in Florence the year before. She cried, as she held the wallet close to her. Her father loved her, and she knew it.
The wallet contained some paper bills and plastic cards. A typical wallet, if you ask me. My friend immediately looked for the senior citizen's card. She found more than what she was looking for.
My friend found herself staring back at her. Tucked in one of the wallet's compartments were pictures of her and her siblings. Her father loved them, and they knew it. She cried again, this time comforted by her father's love. I cried with her, because I had been witness to that love.
