I was thirty when my father, Jerry, died in McKinleyville, California. 

 

The last time I saw him, I held his shrunken body upright from behind while he urinated, 

my arms wrapped around his chest. It was like hugging a bag of 

wheezing, cancer-ridden feathers. 

 

It was the first time Jerry didn’t smell like cigarettes.

 

He pissed in the toilet and yelled, 

“How did I sire such a bull?” 

 

After Jerry died, I was obligated to clean out his white Ford Econoline van 

which he had lovingly christened The Enterprise II. 

 

I found hand tools, a stolen ashtray from the Bakersfield Denny’s, 

and a water-damaged picture of me from first grade. 

 

I found his last pack of unfiltered Camels, the plastic wrap unbroken.

 

I found a spiral-bound notebook where he kept meticulous records of the weather 

and his van’s maintenance schedule. I confirmed that The Enterprise II 

was overdue for spark plugs, points, and a distributor cap.

 

Folded into the journal, I found a page from another notebook. 

 

On that page, Jerry had written, “Don’t die from this shit.”