The Healing Trip (Part 8)

"What's your favorite song?" I asked my brother. "Favorite of all time?" "Driver's Seat by Sniff 'n' the Tears," he answered. I admitted I'd never heard it. A few days later, we drove toward Savannah for another round of chemo. I kept both hands at 10 and 2, my eyes on the monotonous road that stretched between farmland and the occasional interruption of a small Southern town, while one of my brother's shaky hands held the ever-present red Solo cup, ready to catch whatever his body rejected and the other held a handkerchief. His head lay against the headrest and his eyes, their lids bulging and nearly translucent, stayed closed; weakness kept him from doing much else. I'd tuned the car's rad

The Healing Trip (Part 7)

My brother and I didn't always share the same "likes," but one of our common grounds was music. We both loved it and we both loved knowing something about it. This is, however, pretty much where it begins and ends. Van was child of the 70s while I got my groove on with 60s music. When it came to the 70s, I stuck to a lighter rock; Van enjoyed the heavier stuff. We did agree on a couple of groups, though: The Eagles and Queen. And, we both agreed that there are few guitarist like Joe Walsh or singers who can belt out a tune quite like Freddie. And we both enjoyed watching biographies about the singers and the bands; Van would often save them on his DVR for me to watch (and him to re-watch) wi

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