How to live forever

Last night, I dreamt that my friend Peter was still alive. It was this time last year that I learned his life was ebbing away, so maybe now there’s a link in my brain between the waning November light and the loss of him. In my dream, he was alive though, in quotidian ways. We talked from time to time, or wrote, or ran into each other downtown. But he was not well, and in the dream, I spent a lot of time thinking about what I would do once he died. I walked the downtown, looking in at shop windows and seeing things I thought he’d like, and realizing he would have no use for them. They had been made utterly frivolous.

What would I do to remember him? How would I stave off oblivion? In my dream, it came to me, the way dream revelations do. My face pressed against a shop window, I thought, “I will remember him, and when I die, I will pass into the memories of my children and he will go with me.” I woke up with the conviction that I’d solved the great riddle. And then, as I shook loose of the dream, the sense of it fell apart entirely.

Stone wall and cow bones, Connecticut dairy farm.

Stone wall and cow bones, Connecticut dairy farm.

I suddenly thought, lying there, of a discussion I’d had recently with a student about homeopathy. We’d gone over the principle of it: a drug or a poison is put through serial dilutions and shaken (they call them “succussions”) each time, until eventually, the dilutions have reached a state where there is not one single molecule of the original substance left in the solution. There is only, proponents claim, the “memory” of the substance itself. Then I despaired. What is my memory but a dilution of him? And when I then pass into memory, it will not be whole. The passage will not be of every thought I ever had, and every person I ever lost.

My grandparents are real to me, though dead, but only stories to my sons. My great-great grandmother is only that to me: a photo of her visiting family in Italy and feeding the street pigeons in some piazza; some stories of her in heels out in the driveway sweeping the puddles away with a pocketbook over her arm. We become derivatives, caricatures, a few stories.

There is a line I have tried to find again in one of Hardy’s novels about generations upon generations of cows passing through an old field gate, the individual animals unimaginable in their oblivion. That is the fate worse than death, to be like mute animals, who, even when they have names, are erased when the farmer who called them that is gone. That, I suppose, is why I write, though admitting to such hubris and self-preservation makes me squirm. If I leave words behind by which they might know me, then I can face this all with a bit more grace.

Serial dilutions and succussions, and after a while, there is no substance left. “Water has no memory,” I found myself saying to the student. It applies to the molecules and molarity, but really, we could have known. After all, one cannot write on water.

My family spent the Columbus Day weekend in Franconia, New Hampshire, through the beneficence of an acquaintance with an available condo there. Franconia itself is just north of Franconia Notch, access point for the trails up Franconia Ridge, a hike I’ve wanted to do for years. Malcolm, at seven, is supremely confident in his hiking abilities, and I am too often susceptible to his suggestions for overly ambitious trips. This time, I bowed to the realities of two young children, a husband with an unreliable knee, and the ever encroaching darkness at either end of the day gnawing away at the available hiking hours. I scrapped my hopes of hiking the ridge. Instead, we climbed Cannon Mountain, a 4100 foot peak across the notch from the Ridge.

The trail is short, and, typical of White Mountain paths, heads just about straight up the mountain, regardless of the obstacles. No switchbacks, no effort to avoid boulders or slab, so the trail sometimes resembles not so much a path as a dry creek bed. The route was direct, but difficult. Arguably, our trails are like our people in that regard.

The view of Lafayette from Cannon.

The view of Lafayette from Cannon.

There were other people on the trail, a few knots of college students with dogs, a passel of hedge fund types talking loudly about their returns, but overall, it was quiet and not crowded as we wound our way up the steep side and then the level secondary peak and little dip of a col before the final rise to the summit. At the end of the trail, we came to a gravel path, well-groomed and wide, which was disorienting enough. Then, a steady flow of people emerged from around a bend. They had just disembarked from the aerial tramway that conveys tourists up to the summit’s observation tower. A distance we had covered in two hours, with multiple snack and water breaks, and nagging thoughts of my whinging Achilles and overtensed hamstring, these people had traversed in twenty minutes. The coffee and hot chocolate they’d bought at the bottom hadn’t had time to cool. They wore leather equestrian boots and carried red purses. They tugged at insufficient sweatshirts or jackets and breathed into their hands. They crowded onto the deck of the observation tower and tried to coax their children to smile before the backdrop of the mountains.

The disorientation of emerging into this scene is not unique to Cannon. When Christophe and I climbed Mount Washington, we had a similar feeling as we crossed the last, barren scree field and came up over a ridge to see throngs of people ill-dressed for the conditions, but unconcerned in their flip flops and t-shirts, snapping photos and buying souvenirs before returning to their cars or the cog railway for transport back down the mountain. We put on our extra layers of fleece and contemplated the hours ahead of us to get back to the trailhead in Pinkham Notch.

Nor is Christophe immune to taking panoramic shots.

Nor is Christophe immune to taking panoramic shots.

What is that feeling, coming up into such a group when they’ve been carried up and I’ve walked? The fall foliage was a bit past peak as we sat there, but the yellow of the beeches was still licking up the flanks of Lafayette across to the east. Sitting on the only available bench, we received a glowering look from a harried mother with two kids of her own fresh off the tram. Christophe leaned over to me and said, “I don’t feel the least bit guilty about taking this bench.” Watching these people take panoramic pictures with their phones and jostle and cajole their kids, and rub their cold arms in the brief time they had before the return trip, I had the distinct sense of moving at half speed compared with them. They were still paced for the ordinary world–everything at least quick, mostly instantaneous. We’d climbed for two hours, and had two hours yet to climb back down. Our whole day was consumed by this mountain. I’m glad to see people get outside and into the mountains however they can. Those kids may, having seen the mountains from this perch, someday decide to climb them on their own power. It’s good for people to get outside. And there are other mountains that offer solitude, and no tramways or roads. I am still a few years from being able to climb them with any regularity, so they preoccupy me. While I’m preparing lectures or grading homework, the breaks I take are to read stories about hiking or long backpacking trips. I look at a lot of pictures. Someone, a family friend, once took me for a hike up a small mountain to a fire tower. Ever since then, I was captivated by the idea of walking up mountains. Taking kids up a mountain on the tramway is better than nothing.

15539742431_6d01846359_o-2The next day, we waited three hours for a seat at Polly’s Pancake Parlor. It was a cool, sunny day, and from outside the restaurant, there is a clear view across the notch at Franconia Ridge. As the morning progressed, clouds descended on the peaks. Not on little cat feet, but with broad, leonine paws, and then, lowering its full bulk down until the peaks were all obscured. How many years before I can walk up there myself and traverse that ridge? Maybe two or three, and my boys will be able to hike it without much trouble. For now, I look at it from any angle I can. From Cannon, across the notch, from a clearing in Sugar Hill, from Route 93 creeping along its base. We’ll get up there one of these days. But you can’t see the summit from the summit itself. The views are better at this remove.

I’m now five or so weeks into my teaching semester, and my own kids even longer into their elementary school year. Simon, our five year old, boarded the school bus for the first time in August. I’d thought I might feel at least some little twinge: our younger child off to school, no more babies for real now. But I felt no particular emotion (aside from the sense of freedom that came with his getting on that bus). When I tell people that, many of them appear a little unnerved, as if it indicates an overall lack of sensitivity to the passage of time, or to the bittersweet nature of kids growing up. As to that last, so far, it’s really only been sweet since I genuinely disliked caring for babies and toddlers. From here on, I suspect it may get harder.

With our elder son, we focused on the firsts. With our younger, the lasts. It’s a typical pattern, and one probably partly responsible for the defining personality characteristics of birth order. I am attuned to all the lasts in my second child like I never was with my first son. A couple months ago, Simon said, “Wow, now I can have gum like a big boy,” and it must have been that he’s gradually stopped using the phrase “big boy” or I wouldn’t have noticed it this time. But he doesn’t usually talk like that anymore, and he hasn’t used the term since. I was, at that moment, I think, listening to him describe himself as a big boy for the last time, and as he stopped calling himself one, he became one.

Kids aren’t good at understanding these subtle and slow sorts of shifts. They like the grand gestures, the clear delineations. One day, when Simon was much younger, I was carrying him down the stairs and reciting a poem to him. “And since the whole thing’s imagined anyhow, imagine being Kevin. Which is he? Self-forgetful, or in agony all the time?” and before I could give the next line, Simon blurted, “in agony all the time.” It had to be one or the other, and I suppose he heard more music in that one.

This fall, I started a new job on the science faculty at my local community college. I moved into my office, set up my science books and my posters of marine life, and settled into my schedule teaching chemistry. Settling down to something has never been my strong suit. After my undergraduate degree in English literature, I went off to veterinary school for a general sense of how animals are put together, and how they fall apart. After that, teaching biology, animal science, and now chemistry. Unlike my colleagues with PhDs, my knowledge has never delved very deep, but has stretched very wide, my interests ever broadening. I couldn’t settle to one thing, drill down the way they needed to, become immersed in an exclusive subject. This job though, has an air of permanence. I’ve signed the pension papers with every expectation that I will be here no less than ten years, and hopefully far longer. I have stepped onto the tenure track. If all goes well, I will still be teaching here in thirty years.

across disciplines: drawings in the science halls.

Across disciplines: the drawings in the science halls.

Some people, when they hear about my educational trajectory, assume I got my English degree and then came to my senses and found something more practical, more marketable.  But I have been veering like this all my life. I have a notebook from when I was 11 and assiduously recorded everything I heard on a PBS special about neuroscience. By high school, I had vague ideas about being a writer instead. At the end of college, I thought maybe a poem-writing veterinarian– the animal doctor version of William Carlos Williams, but I could find fewer and fewer people who said anything aside from “pick one.” The English background was a benefit of course (“We need more scientists who can write,” one professor told me) but it was meant to be only background. Whatever I settled to for my graduate degree would be who I really was intellectually.

My office is on the third floor of the science building, but our hallway shares space with the art department. Our big corner classroom is a studio, and the bulletin boards outside are a revolving gallery. This week, it was figure drawings, skeletons in charcoal, and paintings of some large, bovine skull. Some of my colleagues find it irritating that so much of our hallway is consumed by art, but I love it. I’ve spent this first fifteen years or so of my adult life deflecting off one thing and veering into another. The longer I stay in this job, and the greater the proportion of my life I devote to science, the more I wonder what happens to that humanities part of me. The English major part that was not, despite what anyone thinks, a frivolity, or a luxury I indulged in before I got down to serious, marketable work. I am fortunate that I also love science, since the gods right now are smiling down on science education. Blessed be the STEM instructors. But I will always have my secret affinities, however many years of science teaching may encase them. Science is what I do, it’s what I teach, and I love it. But the humanities are who I am. And when I wonder if that true self can survive this commitment to a fundamentally different way of looking at the world, I suppose I know it will. It’s not a choice after all. Things grade into things. Little boys become big boys, a writer teaches science, and what we call everything is not always by its true name.

Last night, all the phones in the house began ringing simultaneously. This is always an indication that an alert is coming out from the school system–snow days, an incident of violence at the middle school, that kind of thing. Last night, it was to tell us that Emma Jacobs, a 17 year old from our small town, had died in a car crash that afternoon. With that terse message (“crisis counselors will be available at the high school,” etc.), a bomb detonated in the life of our little town. The crater that opens up at the death of a child swallows up her family and friends entirely, and the concussive pressure wave rips through all the concentric rings of neighbors, acquaintances, friends of friends.

I did not know Emma or her family, but I am walking through this day with a thickness in my chest for everyone who did–for the neighbors who’ve known her since she was a baby, the elementary school teachers who taught her and who teach my kids now, for the kids at the high school who knew her, played lacrosse with her, sat in class with her, and, being teenagers, have neither words for what is happening, nor mastery over their inchoate feelings. Everyone wants to talk, and no one knows what to say. On Emma’s Facebook page, high school kids post “Rest easy,” and “I didn’t know you well, but you were always really nice,” still speaking to her. Her page says she goes to Exeter High School. There are still people who haven’t received the news yet, and knew her, and to them, she’s still alive. We are still in the period after the bomb blast when everything is chaos; the shrapnel is still in the air.

IMG_5659We cast around for what to say, or what to do. People leave notes or send emails to the family telling them, “Anything you need, just ask.” “Reach out to us–we want to help you.” I have never been at the bottom of such a dark hole myself, but from what I’ve seen of this kind of grief, it will have to be us who do the reaching. The pit in the stomach, the nausea, it’s partly the sorrow we feel for what’s happened, but it’s tangled with embarrassment, with fear of saying the wrong thing, with guilt that our own kids are sound in their beds. Despite this, we must say something. Pray for them, if that is your tradition, and tell them you’re doing it. Bring food, or just go scrub their toilets or mow the lawn. Do not be afraid to speak her name, either now, or in the long weeks, months and years to come. You will not remind them of something painful they forgot, you will remember someone they loved and cannot ever forget.

A man I went to high school with died, along with his son, in an avalanche last winter. His father visits the memorial Facebook page for them from time to time, looking for new stories people have shared about his son and grandson. In the immediate aftermath, there were many. Now, they have stopped almost completely, but still, he posts from time to time, asking, or just thanking people. I can feel his fingers searching in the dark, sifting for more fragments of memory. It is a kindness we do, when we say the names of the dead to the people who loved them most.

We hope that the people who are bereft will tell us what they need, because we are ready to offer anything, but we don’t know what to do on our own. It takes courage to go so close to a grief this large. It has its own gravity, and it isolates those within it. But we have to be the ones, up here on the crater’s rim, to reach down to them. They are in utter darkness, and the walls are steep. When they emerge, there will never be a way for us to close the hole up behind them. We will all, forever, be stepping around it. They will be living very close to its rim. In time, they will, with help, be able to look away from it more often, and see the rest of life going on farther from it. But it will always be there, at the center of their lives. What we can do, however far we are from the epicenter, for now, is help them on the long climb out. The heavy feeling in your chest that is grief and fear and dread, it has a use too. It is an anchor point. Lower your line from that. Set your heels into the dirt and brace for the weight. It’s going to take all our strength to raise them.

In wilderness

Mid-week, I headed up to the White Mountains for a solo overnight. It was the first time I’d be backpacking alone in my life, and the first time without children along in two years. I had an idea to head into the Pemigewasset Wilderness and possibly do the Pemi loop, a 31 mile circuit that climbs the spine of Franconia Ridge and the Bonds, with their views, I had been told, unparalleled in the Whites. I got to the trailhead at Lincoln Woods around 10am, and after a brief stop into the Ranger station to talk about bears, headed out on the flat, broad old railroad bed that begins the trip. It was easy striding along the first four miles, but I knew I was settling into a pace that was too fast. Liberated from the excruciating slowness of kids, and also craving the physical anesthetic of exhaustion, I flung myself up Bondcliff Trail. I had some rational reasons: I wanted to get to Guyot campsite by late afternoon, and if thunderstorms were coming, I needed to scramble across the mile and a half of exposed ridge over Bondcliff before they arrived. It was a hot, humid day in the valleys, and a cold front predicted, so the possibility was real, but by the time I came up to the ridge, the sky was blue with only a few innocuous clouds. I had driven myself up through the dank lower woods, speeding past the stream crossings, and now was nauseated and trembling at the top of Bondcliff and I leaned against a rock and sobbed.

I tried to name what it was, and thought of a yoga class I took in vet school, when, at the end of the session, everyone would lie flat in the dark for relaxation. Sometimes, someone would begin crying quietly. Our instructor said it happens all the time–after the exertion, things can come up out of you unexpectedly, if you give them a moment to. My viscous sobs came bubbling up out of me, slumping alone on Bondcliff, and I thought about it. There was the anxiety that had pursued me up the trail, chasing me out here onto the exposed summit with thoughts of the new job I start next week, my son starting his first day of kindergarten, the simple fact that I was eight miles or so from my car and planning to sleep alone out here. I longed for my family, at their schools and jobs at that time of the afternoon, while I stood on this scoured ridge. There was not a soul to be seen in any direction, and mountains ranged on mountains. The flat jut of rocky fist where people stand to have their pictures taken was vacant, and I had no one to take my picture for me. I took its picture, forced down a handful of nuts and strode on, as if this hadn’t been my destination at all.


Bondcliff summit

Crossing the exposed ridge line over to Bond, I passed a pile of fresh bear scat seething with flies. People always mention bears when I say I’m going backpacking. They think of bears, and of rapists or murderers. I worry about more quotidian things–the weather, filling the hours when I’m finished hiking, loneliness. I got to the top of Bond and stood by the cairn feeling another wave of craving set in for my sons, my husband. I have been away from them all for days, a week on end and not felt this urgent need for them. Had I really wanted to, I knew I could have turned around and gone straight back to the car and been home that night. I felt miserable, standing up there, viewing the views unparalleled in the Whites, but I scurried back down below treeline and pressed on for camp.

The view backward from Bond.

The view backward from Bond.

By 3pm, I’d reached Guyot campsite. The caretaker, Justin, was friendly toward my hammock setup and found me a few likely spots to sling my shelter. I set it up, and then went to watch the comings and goings of other campers from the porch of the log shelter. There were the usual solo hikers and pairs set up at the various tent platforms, but three college groups were also staying that night and the cooking area filled up with their giggling and their banged up cauldrons of mac and cheese. I sat up on my perch with the supper I was slowly forcing myself to eat and spoke rarely. I know a lot of backpackers deride the campsites for this reason–so many people packed into one spot, talking, interrupting one’s pensive solitude. But I’d had enough of solitude, and also I appreciate the metal bear boxes for food so I don’t have to spend an hour finding an appropriate tree for hanging my food.

Near sundown, another large group arrived to use the shelter too. The campsite must have been beyond capacity. I headed down to my hammock to read, but got distracted by all the chatter around me. Two guys at the nearest platform talked food, “This one is a sweet, kind of roasty flavor.” “This one is more chickeny-beefy. But we need some fiber. It’s important to have fiber on the trail or you can’t poop.” “Definitely,” said the other, “Have you pooped?” “No,” said the first. “Me neither. I tried. Did you try?” “No,” said the first. And so on. On the other side of me, two college women made up medical facts about exactly how toxic shock syndrome occurs as a result of tampon use. But they spoke with conviction, and that’s more important. There was a 30 something Harvard grad who now builds chairs hiking with his dog, and a middle-aged man talking at two sullen teenagers about water filtration. We were a band of pilgrims in an inane, contemporary Canterbury Tales.


The view from West Bond.

Fortunately, the college students were all so utterly exhausted that within a half hour after sunset, they were asleep. I slept only fitfully, but during one of my dozes, I woke to a guy in one of the college groups moaning in his sleep. He yelled out “No!” a little while after. Then, clear and drawn out, he howled, “Frogs and stones!” None of this bothered me; I was glad to be in this gathering, rather than alone in some narrow berth in the trees the requisite distance from any trail or water. In the morning, I made myself some tea and ate a few handfuls of granola. A French Canadian man sitting on the log next to me farted exuberantly. I was back on the trail by 6:30, headed out to hike West Bond without my pack. I got to the summit to look across to Bondcliff’s ridge and down to the green knit of unbroken trees on all sides below. Fog was closing in–the weather reports had promised that all summits would be “firmly in clouds” today, and I watched, transfixed, as it descended, closing down my vision beyond 100 feet or so. It was the last summit view I would get that day, so I decided to save Franconia Ridge for another time and head home straight down the trail from Galehead Hut a few miles west.

Along the Twinway (part of the Appalachian Trail).

Along the Twinway (part of the Appalachian Trail).

I crossed over to South Twin Mountain on a stretch of the Appalachian Trail. The long corridor of balsam and spruce reminded me of the murky col where I’d read The BFG to the boys on our backpacking trip earlier in the summer. By the time I reached the summit of South Twin, the clouds were opaque and white as a cataract, obliterating anything much more than a few paces away. I barely paused and dropped back down into the trees for Galehead. The hut was empty but for a morose pair of preteen girls bandaging their blisters under the cheerful gaze of their persistently optimistic father. Staying only long enough to eat a quick snack out of the clouds and wind, I headed straight down Twin Brook trail and was quickly leaving behind the boreal forest and grading into paper birch. A stand of hobblebush, already deep red for fall, reminded me of Simon, who, once he learned the low growing habit of the plant, and its notoriety for tripping horses, now blames it every time he falls, even when he’s on a suburban sidewalk or inside the house.

Beaver Pond along Franconia Brook Trail.

Beaver Pond along Franconia Brook Trail.

Once I reached Franconia Brook Trail, I made quick time on the flat, easy trail, and traveled the six or so miles back to the trail head without stopping at all. On that stretch, I thought about my sadness up on the Bonds, my anxiety and loneliness. It hadn’t been the distance, or the time away. It hadn’t been missing my younger son’s report of his first day of kindergarten. It wasn’t guilt, or homesickness, or even the exhaustion. It was what I had gone to the wilderness for. I had emerged up above tree line to look out on the immensity of this remote place, terrible in its broad indifference. It is awesome in the traditional sense–unnerving, unsettling, and not always pleasant. I was utterly alone, days or even weeks from rescue had anything gone seriously wrong. It was beautiful in the disturbing way of open water; it leaves a person dwarfed, obscure as any individual tree in the brindled forests on the mountains’ flanks. As the elevation fell away, I felt the pang of leaving the alpine zone behind again and reentering the familiar, comforting northern forests of home. I had not felt comfortable on those mountains, but I had not come for comfort, or ease, or even pleasure. The mountains had done what I had actually needed: to be obliterated, for a little while by their immensity. And if I needed to huddle with a group of strangers for the evening, it was only to recollect myself and do things on a human scale again.

This summer, Malcolm became transfixed by the story of the North Pond Hermit in Maine, who lived alone in the woods for 27 years one pond over from where we rent a cabin each year. The man had walked into the woods when he was twenty and between then and when he was captured and arrested last year for repeated burglaries of nearby homes, he spoke only one word to another soul. I know many backpackers who avoid campsites and huts for the same reason. They seek a solitude that is absolute. Maybe I’m just not as good at being alone with myself yet. Maybe it’ll come. For now, I’m glad of other people, despite the aggravations they come with. I’m not sure I will ever come to a point when I can see something like what there is to see from that ridge, and not long to say to someone else, “Look at that.” Without it, those views have some small measure of hollowness at their core, a little cavitation in the awe. But I would consider myself poor indeed if I did not have people I longed to show it to, and instead, I am rich with them.

For keeps

Last Saturday, my youngest sister got married. It was a brief ceremony in a riotous garden. We stood for the bride, my sisters and I, and her oldest friend, and her back was to us. We could see her groom’s face and hear the vows he’d written and was now making. When it was Mary’s turn, I could neither hear her words nor see her face, only the reaction on Josh’s face, on the brink of becoming her husband. A bumblebee bounced drunkenly off the portico above their heads. Another crawled under the layers of tulle in her dress. Across from me, standing up for the groom, my baby brother swiped at tears.

After the ceremony, my elder son and I danced for three hours straight. His younger brother found the music too loud and stood, like a curmudgeon, out by the pond behind the tent. After an hour or so, my husband took him home. I stayed to dance and the next day, my neck was sore from inclining my head down to look at my seven year old dance partner. By the last dance, when the remaining couples were slumped against each other, swaying almost imperceptibly, I was jerkily rounding the floor with my son. My husband and I are in the last years of rearing very young children, when so many of our interactions are transactional (“You have the diaper bag?” “Can you make them sandwiches?” “I can’t meet the bus today, can you get there?”) and we can see the the golden light of the mid-childhood years creeping in at the windows–the years when they aren’t so desperately needy, but have not yet been lost into the wounding teenage rage for freedom.

During one of my brief dance breaks, I talked to my brother for a bit out in the garden. He pointed out that he’s the last of us five, and the only one still unmarried, and so far, everyone’s gotten married and stayed that way. My parents for more than thirty years, me for more than a decade, my other two sisters for six or seven years apiece. “Nobody’s jaded,” he said to me. And I’ll grant him that. It’s not to say that no one’s struggled, just that we all still see this commitment as worth making, and worth working at.

IMG_5891The week since my sister’s wedding, I’ve been helping out my dad. He and my mother own and live in a five apartment building, and they have a new tenant moving in under a tight deadline after another of my sisters and her family moved out into their first house. The whole apartment needs the usual repairs, cleaning, and painting. For three days, I painted, the wedding manicure disappearing under smears of primer and paint. The house is old, well past one hundred years now, and was once a barn. It’s been added to, renovated, and painted over so many times the rooms must be substantially smaller now for all the pigment layers. All the corners are eased and rounded with a shale of paint. In corners and awkward spots, there are glimpses of a canary yellow, turquoise, and a rosy pink. There are divots in a bedroom door just at the height of a toddler’s swinging foot. There are pencil marks on the door jamb where my sister recorded the heights of my nephew and niece. Throngs of spiders inhabit the corners, and they high step through the drying paint. A wolfish one huddles in a ceiling crack. The house is old and peculiar. I lived in that apartment once too and know the quirks of its window sashes, the cant of the floor, the sweetly Victorian doorbell and knobs. It’s always in need of something, always threatening to crumble. In the few places where my father has added a new closet, or shelves, the paint goes on over harsher angles, and the wood itself feels lighter, less significant.

Old houses are exasperating. Old marriages the same. But my young brother is right. I’m not jaded, and I am up for the work. We Faheys do things for keeps.


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