i just read a book about a grandfather's death, his grandson's visit to the house he has inherited, and what happened then. so i've been crying, of course, and laughing, standing under hot water and thinking about ordinary miracles. because what has been happening
to me happens to most everyone--this process of grief and unfolding, this continual decision to live, and to keep my father alive in my life.

my friend, phoning and finding me crying, quoted, "Grief is repetitive." i've been thinking about that a lot. the coils of mourning, of coming around and around to the same point, unbearable each time. grief is repetitive in my body, in the curves of my brain and my
body. it is also repetitive outside of me, repeated again and again in the world.

i didn't know that i'd cry over that silly movie, Amistad. but at the moment that the man calls upon his ancestors, and said that they must come when he calls, for at this moment i am the entire reason for all of their lives, grief hit me again. in the space of the day and the night after we turned off the respirator, in the space that it took for breath to leave him, my father became my ancestor. he is my breath now--he is my center.

he couldn't talk through the respirator to tell us of the headache that became a stroke, and i keep thinking of my broken jaw wired-shut and silent in what used to be the worst time of my life. we are joined through the mouth, through the throat, through the lungs. through
history and flesh--through weak vision, the love of bad movies, and a tendency to giggle.

one very large difference though, is that i talk much more than my father ever did. breath fills my lungs too eagerly for me not to speak.

this is for him.