Daddy and I would stand behind your crib, taking turns to watch you fall asleep, your eyelashes fluttering until shut in a goodnight kiss. We stayed nearby in case you needed us to pet your thick, dark hair or hold your hand.
My SUV roller coastered up and and down the rural hills of Route 198. My teenage daughter Cara, the new owner of a five-day old driver’s license, and I were on our way to an afternoon doctor’s appointment in Erie, PA. We had another thirty miles to go and thirty-five minutes to get there when I noticed a state trooper clocking drivers from his police car.
Today marks the twelfth anniversary of my beloved father’s death. This blog is a chapter of my memoir, The Reckoning of the Black Butterfly. May the memory of Frank. T. Snyder be eternal.