What can YOU say in six sentences?
Within 48 hours, I'll see my father again, first time in fourteen years.
He has become one of those keepsakes on a high shelf, the sort you never touch or talk about. You dust it periodically. It means something, but you can't put it into words, so you just hang on.
I wrote last week that I'd call him when I arrive in Fort Worth tomorrow, and I've decided to invite him to my hotel for lunch, before he's had too much to drink, so we can talk about now and nouns, unemotional things, banal doing and being and the living -- not the dead, not the past or future; we can handle the middle, but we won't know how to start or what to say when it's time for him to go.
In front of so many strangers, I won't cry.