Dad and me in Paris

I had a party last night -

-and at some point I made my roommates coworkers come into my room and feel my pillows to see if they could tell the feather down one from the not feathers one when they both had bed bug covers on them. Then I had them look through all my books and talk with me about them.

Life of the party.
Part of the lifey.

Dad is so dark in so many photos

This is from Paris, in 2014. Look how happy, how in love. 

In film, in digital, dark people are always too dark. I've lost so many of my dad's expressions to this. 

This was going to be about something else

I have been missing my dad a lot in the last week, I keep thinking of his last days. How weak and thin he was, how he couldn't talk. How he reached for us again and again to just hold us to him, like holding us was the only way to say I love you. I love you, goodbye. I love you, let me fill up on you before I go. I love you, I want to hold you. For minutes upon minutes, heart to heart. His heart beat really slow, and I could feel it more than I've ever felt anyones heart. There was almost nothing between his heart and me. Skin. Some bones. His hands were so strong, arms so strong. How? Just pure need to hold us?

I used to sit on my dad's lap all the time, or next to him on the couch. He said I leaned too much, flopped on people too much, but I'm glad I did now. His voice is already fading a little. My memory is so bad, I can barely remember anything I've ever done, my life is just small memories strung out along a highway, each one miles from the next. But I remember how his hair felt, on the top of his head. He was balding, and the hair at the top was so soft. I would just pet him. He'd take it for a while and then shake me off. "Teetee, stop it!" I remember how his hands felt, soft also, skin smooth, nails neat and manicured. Miraculous cuticles. Chubby veins sticking out on top, but not veiny. His calves had almost no hair, I was always so jealous. I know how his nose felt, I would trace it from the space between his eyebrows to the tip of his nose, a little jelly roll nose. I was always trying to figure out which parts of my face I got from him, and which I got from my mom. I annoyed him, I know, always touching. Like a little monkey.  But now I have all these tactile recollections. Wirey eyebrows, wild and corkscrewing. Meeting in the middle a little bit. I got that from him. And soft fatty earlobes. And a lump on the back of his neck. I was worried the lump was the cancer, but no. That was hidden inside.

I'm stressed, I'm stressed. Lately I'm so stressed. And I'll just be sitting somewhere and the memory of him reaching from that hospital bed in the living room for us, to hold us, weak with hunger and sickness, it will just smack me in the head. And I just start crying. I've gotten pretty good at stopping crying. I didn't want to cry in front of dad, he. I couldn't have done that, he didn't want us to be sad. And for so long it was like we were all in denial that he was dying so you couldn't cry.  So I can sort of stop on command, I can sort of just swallow up the tears, and like shake it off. But I can't stop it from coming in the first place. It comes, quicker and quicker lately, a heavy wave smacking upon the shore.  I feel guilty for not having called more. Talked more. Emailed more. And I can't anymore! I can't even call his voicemail. It's been disconnected. I can't even call and get a stranger on the line, just to tell them, "This used to be my dad's phone. He died, and I miss him."

I want to show him my new house. I want to show him music I found that I know he'd be so delighted by. I would even be happy to have him yell at me, ask me what the hell I'm doing with my life. I want to hug my dad, I want to pet his head and feel the fuzzy hairs holding on for dear life. Even have him question me about my weight. I hated that. I'd welcome it back for a little more time.

The new landlords, they sold the house, or they got an offer. My home is going to be gone, sold to some millionaires that had never even heard of the jungle before it became Silicone Beach. Fuck tech bros. My father died in that house. I cried in that house. I got my first period in that house. Learned how to paint in that house. I was the most me I have ever, ever, ever been in that house. Will I ever be as at home as I was in that house? Home home home. Gone to the highest bidder.

"Of all the Kazakhs who sing French songs on Chinese singing competition shows, he's my favorite"

The Boys

Our Finest, Our Spacemen, looking for anything like monks. I was looking for pictures of young Neil Armstrong, I love his boyish smile and his famous terrestrial foot on extraterrestrial dust.

I Think It Comes In Waves

Dad died January 15th at 7pm. My brother was at yoga, I was playing with the kid that my neighbor was babysitting while she made biscuits and talked to me. My mom was in the next room, or maybe she was checking if he needed morphine, but didn't realize he had died. He was so still, so glassy eyed, near the end, it was hard to tell without checking his breath. The brash nurse was there, the worst person to have near you when your father dies. He died over a month ago. Today is the 21st, more than 30 days later. I've had a weird day, emotional, maybe influenced by menstrual hormones and lack of sleep, but also maybe this is grief.

Maybe this is grief. For me it comes in waves. slow waves, with time in between. Maybe it's more like tides. Hello, high tide. The water comes in, I miss my father. It hasn't consumed me, but the water is up to my chin, and I'm a little overwhelmed. I miss my father, I can't call him. I miss my father, who will tell me stories? I miss my father, I don't think I talked to him enough. I miss my father, and he is very gone. I have him in a jar on my shelf. I have him in two photos hanging in my room, and two poems he gave me, tacked to the walls.  That's not enough, but it keeps the waves at bay, sometimes.

Everyone's father dies. Don't they. It's not special.

I can't stop talking about him. Bringing him up in conversation. I shy from telling people he died. They look sad when I tell them and I don't know what to say. I want them to listen to me tell them about him, when he was alive. The things he did (oh! the things he did!), the things he said (oh! the things he said!) I want them to revel in his presence through my voice. And say the thing they always say - "man, I really want to meet your dad." Now they make a sad face, don't say anything.

I'm too afraid to read the emails we sent back and forth near the end. I'm afraid I left him hanging, didn't answer. I'm afraid of finding proof that I, I don't know, abandoned him? I want to read them though. I want to hear him again. I've been watching videos, looking at photos. I should have taken more.

Grief lives inside regret. It locks the doors. It's so hard to evict.