Dowsing with my Father in the Afterlife

Frozen snow through which trails of stubbled corn jut. Seasons of grief, seasons of little or no moon.

Driving slower over the bridge in Sunderland, gazing at the blue Connecticut River. Remember farms?

How in a sense the 1970s were clearer than any other decade, not crystalline so much as a fine narrative you wouldn't change if you could. Dowsing with my father in the afterlife.

Cookbooks from the late fifties, trying to find the recipe for Hungarian Goulash my mother used. There is a light some mornings, isn't there.

We drank Heineken at my uncle's grave which confused then annoyed the priest. There was a turn I was supposed to take and I did not take it until well into my fifties, oh well.

Umbrellas are sexy, mirror balls are sexy, getting up early together is sexy. The pace of the changes suggest certainty is not forthcoming, at least in this life.

Coldest day of the new year I wear Dad's old ski sweater, keep asking everybody if there's anything I can do for them, just like he used to. B sides, man.

Semetsky argues that "the dualism of man versus nature is overcome due to the action of signs crossing over the Cartesian schism with its isolated non-material 'I think,'" which I think is basically correct. Broken coffee mugs necessitate new coffee mugs.

This hunger in me says there will never be enough and I know better now than to argue. Grilling in winter, a little snow falling.

Took a while but I'm home. Prisms are pretty but breakable, a crisis a child I know has yet to learn how to solve.