My father died twice. The first time had nothing to do with me. That was completely on him. I’ll never know how coherent he was when he slammed his truck into the side of a bridge; his high blood alcohol count at the time will forever veil that evening in a haze. I imagine there were at least a few spare seconds of “Oh, fuck.” It feels better to think that we will have a moment to prepare ourselves for […]

Categories: Tamara Matthews, That's All She Wrote