On the morning of my sister Lauren’s death; after horrendous phone calls; after fumbling to get dressed; after frantically driving to the hospital; after running down the hall; after standing in her ICU room crying and talking while her body lay there waiting for an autopsy (as though it was perfectly normal to stand in a room with your sisters body); after breaking the news to the first of her sons… 

we went to breakfast. 

I’m not sure why because nobody was hungry. But it seemed like the thing to do when you don’t know what’s next to be done. The youngest of our sisters awkwardly asked the waitress if there was a special and when she told us it was a Scott Sandwich, we all burst into wild hysterics. The waitress stood there feebly and somewhat frightened but no one stopped laughing. 

There was nothing “Scott” about this sandwich but the timing. 

With typical weird Rutherford humour, my sisters each ordered one. 

The Universe and I are having a moment. A misunderstanding, more like.

While I’m struggling to accept we’re on the same team, I can’t refuse the offer made to all of us in our plastic chairs and epic grief…

A sandwich from our dad.