What could have happened? It had to be serious if the Sergeant thought he had to come in person.

I got up, slowly dressed and made my way to the kitchen. One cream and two sugars later, I was seated in the living-room sipping piping hot coffee. I tried to absorb the birth of thoughts, that sought to comprehend the possibilities of what could be wrong with my parents. I tried calling again. The phone was still busy at 5:30 a.m. What could have happened, I thought again. I was with them less than seven hours ago.

I allow my mind to wander, waiting was torture. Indelibly riveted in the psyche of my infancy, is the soothing aroma of treats baked in that old brick oven, meandering through the crevices of the doors, and the worn wooden floor of our two-story brownstone.

“Honeysuckle,” I recalled Mom saying, proudly beaming, yet looking me over with the discerning eye of a trainer scanning his prized filly before the ‘Big One’. “What have you been eating? You’re thinner than my silver candlestick holder.” She hugged me as if there was no tomorrow.

My Dad was physically in the twentieth century through his mental fixation. The suspenders, his large straw hats and how he cuts his beard most times, screams Amish. It was her unconditional love for him that had enabled her to float seamlessly between centuries; which, sometimes caused her to forget that I was a woman of the millennium, totally…