(2.9.2009) he said, "take your clothes off and let me steal from you your religion." i was the pudding and he was searching inside for the proof. (2.18.09) No matter how much you prepare yourself, you cannot possibly be ready at the time death occurs. There is the fluttering in the stomach you cannot control. The endless bumping into things. People. Chairs. Thoughts. Emotions. There is no such crash course at all. (2.20.09) We buried Dad today with just enough ceremony that he would have allowed. Police motorcycle cavalcade that saluted me as we walked past, carrying Dad's coffin by my side as though we were young lovers, interlocking hands as we strolled the streets of this quiet New England town. At the graveyard police on horseback, another salute, then gunfire and flag folding (something about the President thanking him for his service in the Air Force which I never knew as part of his identity). Some wind. Some words. A cold winter chill. More words. More wind. More words. And then it was over. It was as though the sky broke open like an egg and all the messy stuff stopped falling out. Even the wind disappeared. And then we parted, the way lovers always do: first the sad separation of the hands in unison, then the glance just past the left shoulder as we faced each other and said goodbye, the bowing of heads as eyes watched feet make their way silently to the car in their own grief-stricken way. Silence never sounded so loud. (2.21.09) And how does one attempt a smile when all the facial muscles have ossified? My father embalmed, and he and I are now one. (2.22.09) i wait to board the plane for this boston-minneapolis flight. and for the first time in the fifteen years i've made my way back and forth—from the salt air of the new england coastline to the silent and vast beauty of the midwest plains—for the first time i feel home pulling me back eastward. and i feel the stretch, rubber-like. in whispers: why does the north wind blow this way? if birds fly south in winter, how does the east ever become their home? muddy rivers flow here; rain falls on top of rain, and summer evenings bring stars, but here they seem much bigger. how does the new england sky do that? there were faces i've not seen since childhood and voices, constantly voices, in the background reminding me that they are still me. no matter where i go, this is the stuff i'm made of: a squirrel running an old stone wall; a featherless bird trying to hide among the bracken. claiming anything else would be heresy.