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I want to leave the party through the window and find my uncle standing on a piece of iron shaped into visible desperation, which must also be (how can it not?) the beginning of visible hope.
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My uncle and I had shared many silences together and, in those silences, I felt as if we knew each other.
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The last time I’d been to my father’s grave was the previous winter, for the dedication ceremony for his headstone. The wind gusted, bone-cold, and I didn’t stay long. I wondered if Dad brokered a deal with God to make the weather unpleasant just to get back at me.
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I’m sitting across from the man who looks exactly like my father would look if my father had lived to be fifty-seven. If my father hadn’t died sixteen years ago when I was thirteen. But he did.
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