It was seven in the evening. The snow had been falling all day and continued to do so. It covered the mountains and the road. It got all over the moss and the mud, sludging all over the living and the inert. It fogged the windows of Father’s car.
It was seven in the evening, and the drive from Father’s hospital in the capital of Vaduz to his cottage in Silum was a short but stressful one. Father had to drive uphill in darkness. The roads were paved but narrow, climbing alongside the rolling mounds under the Alps. There was enough space for only one car going either upwards or downwards. Father’s hands had a tendency to shake against the wheel, particularly when another car was approaching and he feared that in the darkness and snow they would not see him. Sometimes he found himself veering a little onto the grass if he did not maintain composure. There was one time when he drove fully onto the frozen turf and almost caused his car to slide down—he pressed on the pedal and propelled himself forwards with velocity until the car regained its balance.
Father has his family to live for. They depended on him, from the youngest to the oldest.
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