Rachel Friss Stettler
Our daily ritual: ‘Just for a drive’
With my 95-year-old father’s epic, and true, stories comes my daily respite from the sadness of witnessing his decline into dementia
Dad is buckled into the passenger seat next to me, a frayed Navy veteran cap pulled down low over his forehead, his ample belly straining against the seat belt.
As I drive him slowly around Martha's Vineyard Island, one hand clutches his inhaler and the other, his empty brown wallet.