I asked what would you do if you could do anything. What would it be? He weighed the options. I could tell his brain was working by the way his brow furrowed. He said he would get in his car and drive somewhere. No grand plan, elaborate purchase, or exotic trip. Just him behind the wheel of his beloved little Chevy Trax. The car I’ve been driving up and down the Garden State Parkway for the past month. It’s better on gas than my Wrangler and I feel close to him when I drive it. His residual trinkets in the cup holder, Mother Cabrini medal affixed to the mirror, pictures of my sister and I, and tools in the trunk.

When I was a senior in high school he waited outside my home every single day to drive me to school until I was of age to drive on my own. He nibbled on his cheese bagel while he waited. Bagel warmly toasted. Two slices of cold cheese. I still bring him one nearly every morning except he’s not behind the wheel of a car. He is still very much giving me a gift that’s invaluable. A gift of sight. I can see clearly for the first time, maybe ever.

Being with him in a vulnerable state, the rock of our family reliant on supports he never needed, affirms for me that we all have pockets of fragility despite how desperately we try to conceal them. We project the illusion of contentment and yet we’re never really content. It’s onto the next thing; more, better, and as quickly as possible. But I’ve seen when you’re at your bottom, contentment is so easily found. Found in a meal consumed. The wiggle of a toe. A morning without pain. A night’s rest. Everything is enough. The meekest of the meek are incalculably powerful. Suffering becomes your saving grace as all distractions fall from view.

We talk about the Korean War, and plan on where we will go on our next drive. He affixes stickers to a piece of paper, his scissor grip as firm as ever. We speak tenderly, gives kisses, take our time. We split a slice of Nutella tart and sing. Yes, suffering definitely saved me.