My father has died. The words toss about through the sky but refuse to land, like the sparsest winter snow, like flower petals too light to make contact with the ground. It just blows away again and again carried off to somewhere else.
It is all whispers, gathering around me, trying to have force and meaning. But dispersing like mist in the wake of day.
Were we close? I don't even know. We had scarcely seen each other over many years. Living in different parts of the country, we called to talk on holidays. So different, so alike. In not the same way did our feet walk the earth. Yet an intangible wove through us, a connection that had nothing to do with a particular space in time, with any belief, or act, something deep and timeless rendered us akin. It just was.