Bullwinkle was the only thing my father and I had in common. Even after we stopped talking to each other, we could still sit in the same room together and watch Boris and Natasha plot to hold the entire world's supply of mustard for ransom and thus raise enough money to buy some beach-front property in the Ukraine. I suppose it made sense that two months after my father died of a stroke brought on by years of untreated hypoglycemia, he would come back as Bullwinkle and live with his son, his only surviving relative.
He let go of my wrist and handed me the empty Coke can. "When did you stop drinking Pepsi?" he asked.
"I don't know," I said. "I just decided I like Coke better. If you want, I can go to the store and get you some Pepsi."
He put his hand on my shoulder and squeezed, not hard enough to cause pain, but hard enough to let me know I wasn't going anywhere. "Sit down and watch with me," he said.