[I cleaned out my father’s house after he died…]
I cleaned out my father’s house after he died, threw away his uniforms from the war, his letterman jacket, family photos, and correspondence. I tossed his old stationary and cancelled checks, and I found slips of paper on which he’d written, congestive heart failure. In his work pants mended with duct tape there was the flap from an envelope, and on the back, he’d printed, congestive heart failure. On the inside of a matchbook in the front seat of his car: congestive heart failure. These notes were everywhere, on his desk, in his toolbox, in a kitchen drawer. I can’t know if he was trying to remember exactly what would kill him, or if by writing it over and over he thought he might tame it and keep it at bay.