Last Ride With My Dad

"Ok, Papi, I got one. I spy with my little eye something blue." I say to my father as I drive down the NJ Turnpike on our way to his doctor's appointment.

"Hmmm, that's a tough one, kid." He says, rubbing his now smooth chin as he would have when he had a thick salt and pepper beard.

I turn away when tears come to my eyes. I can't stand to see what cancer has done to my father's once lumberjack-strong body. He's always been the most solid man I know, both in character and physical strength. As strong as I appear to be on the outside, I'm falling apart inside.

"Let's see. Well, I know it's not the sky. That's shitty grey, and you're not wearing blue. It's a pity, you know. I think you should. It'll go beautifully with your skin." He says as he plucks disapprovingly at my adorable, I might add, camo windbreaker jacket. I love my Papi, but he was of the ole' old school when the woman did not wear camo, regardless of how fabulous it was with its cute afro patches or the fact that woman might have found it for half off. Thank you very much.

"Thanks, Papi," I say, all too familiar with his tricks. We have been playing this game for more years than I cared to admit. "Now, quit stalling. I spy with my little eye..."

"Yeah, yeah. Give me a second." He says, waving his hands impatiently—another tactic.

"Quit stalling, old man," I say, trying to jab him into action as I playfully pat his shoulder. "Admit it. You missed it. I know at your age, the memory." Pointing at my head," it ain't what it used to be. Is it. That's ok. Mommy told me already," I giggle as I fake dodge his air slap.

"I got your old man." He said, slapping his hands together in his best "bang zoom" impression as he turned in his seat to face me. I'm trying so hard not to laugh in his face as I concentrate on my driving. "First of all, little lady, It was a 1967 Shelby gt500, and we passed it at mile marker 104.7. Thank you very much" He finishes with his arms crossed over his chest.

"And?" I ask.

"And what?" He dryly says back as he tries to navigate the touch screen in my car. "How do you push fast forward on this damn thing?" He gruffly asks.

"Why, what's wrong with my music?" I ask, knowing full well he liked this artist as well. "I like this song," I say as we both start humming melodically to my favorite neo-soul artist.

"Nothing's wrong with it. I just want to hear something a little more upbeat." He says, shrugging his thin shoulders as he fumbles with the nonexistent buttons.

"Here. Pick what you want. I say as I push the menu button on my steering wheel. "Just scroll down on the page as you do with your phone," I say when I see him waving his hand in front of the screen. "No to the right." I direct him as he tries to move the middle of the screen. "You're other right," I say when he goes left.

"I know my right from my left. I was trying to read the category." He answers, sounding irritated, not even looking up. I can still feel him rolling his eyes.

"Sorry!" I say, holding my hands up. "My bad. Carry on." Seconds later, I hear the first strings of his favorite P-Funk song. "Ok, Papi," I say as I start popping my fingers and singing along. The funk temporarily put our game on hold.

Not for long, 20 minutes later, we reached our destination—one of the best cancer treatment centers in the Tri-State area.

"Alright, old man. You ready?" I ask as I ease into our spot in the parking garage. Luckily it's close to the door. He hates being pushed around in a wheelchair. I take a deep fortifying breath as I reach behind his seat for my crossbody bag. Looking over, the look I see on his face breaks my heart. "What's wrong, Papi?" I ask softly, touching his once sandpaper-rough hands.

"Have you started writing your book?" He quietly asks as he stares at the concrete wall in front of us. My book has been a frequent topic of conversation for us lately. At first, it was just something I joked about but after bouncing ideas off of him. It's becoming a reality.

"Yes!" I answer excitedly. " I've decided on the character names, and I think I have the plot down. I'm not sure about the title, but I do know I want it based in Jersey." I ramble on about a book I'll probably never have published for the next few minutes.

"Good, good." Is his response once I come up for air. "I'm proud of you and my son-in-law. You are good kids."

I always loved the relationship he and my husband have. I always call them frick and frack. "Thank you." I say as I swallow a lump and try to change the subject."Anyway, enough about my book. Are you ready?" I ask again as I unbuckle my belt and turn to open my door.

"Wait." He says, grabbing my arm. Looking back, I see his eyes are full of unshed tears.

Turning back, I take his hand and wait for him to speak. He never does. He turns back and continues his examination of the concrete wall.

"Papi, what time was your appointment?" I ask when I notice we've been sitting there for 15 minutes.

"Oh, not until 3:00." He says, looking at his beautiful new swiss watch. He had an obsession with wristwatches. He loved anything "intricate," as he would put it, and if he found it on a tv shopping network. That made it even more valuable to him because now he had a story.

I knew not to say nice watch. That would have been another 15-minute-long conversation. So, I just exclaimed, "Papi, it's 1:57!" to his chuckling face.

"I know, but I wanted you to take me to the mall to get a new jacket. Thank you, by the way." He says with a nod as he plays with the buttons of his new aviator jacket we found 40 minutes earlier. His old coat had gotten way too big due to his weight loss, and it swallowed him up. This new jacket fit his lean frame perfectly and, paired with his ever-present flat cap, gave him a young hipster look. Surprisingly, despite his sickness, he actually did look more youthful.

"You're welcome. It looks dope on you." I say with a smile as I pop his collar. "So why are we here so early?" I ask.

"I just wanted to spend time with you. Oh, and it was a 427 V8," He says softly as he reclines his seat back, turns up the radio, and closes.

Reclining my seat. "Nice watch, and it was a 428 V8," I say as I fast forward the song.