Six in the Morning

He was waiting on the porch when I pulled up, which surprised me, because in twenty years I had never once known my father to be early for anything. He had one bag. It was small and it was hard-sided and he held it on his lap the whole time instead of putting it in the trunk, and I did not ask about that, because we were not the kind of family that asked. The appointment was at a specialist eight hours north. He had called me on Tuesday, the first call in three years, and said the word cancer in a flat voice and asked if I would drive him, and I had said yes before I finished being angry. So now it was six in the morning and the sky was the colour of dishwater and my father was in my passenger seat holding a bag, and I told myself this was a kind thing I was doing.