An Open Letter To The Rattling Breathing Noise Made By Walter White’s Father
by Amy Lindorff
I know you.
I met you in my father’s hospital room at five o’clock the morning of January 3rd. We saw each other twelve hours later when my sister and I came up to the hospital for the last time. To say goodbye to Dad and to say goodbye to you. Once you came into the picture, we knew Dad wasn’t really the same and while we didn’t want him to go, if it meant he no longer had to live with you, it would be for the best.
Fortunately, I am not like Walter White. Not only do I not make meth in a stolen RV, but I do have memories of my father that don’t include you. Lots of them. And for that I am incredibly thankful.