Persistence of Memory

My father's first heart attack was at age sixty-five,
my current age.
We had been installing ceiling tiles in my sister's house
when Dad fell ill.
I remember driving him to the hospital
some fifteen-twenty miles away
faster than I had ever driven before
in his oversized Oldsmobile 98,
Dad moaning, or at times silent, in the backseat.
Also remember stopping at a red light
at the last turn before the hospital
because in those days right turn on red was not yet allowed.
The anger in Dad's voice from the backseat:
"GO! Dammit!"
or words to that effect.
My mother and sister arrived a while later
don't really remember how long.
But I must have been visibly shaken
since they sent me home.
Fifteen or twenty miles later,
I sat on the front steps
drinking a beer
(legal in those days for someone just past 18)
and vowed to never do that again.
The next time?
We called the ambulance.