I'm moving and tell people not to forget this or that. My paintings on the wall, my piano bench (a bar stool with a flanged-flared bowl seat like lilac bowl of 4th grade flower show). I say, "I want to look around before we go to make sure nothing important is left." A muscular man I called Dad says, "OK," and goes outside. I go to the porch and call out, "Wait. We've packed the steps, we can't get down." He gets a motorcycle and says wait, he'll come around inside and get me and we'll jump the porch to get off. I yell at him, "No. It's not necessary. I can go inside and walk down the basement steps." He goes ahead and then crashes and is paralyzed badly. His face is in shock. I start to feel guilty that this was all for me and then realize he did it to himself.