Moving Dad

January 20, 2008

Phoned 330-733-1708 just to test my sister’s declaration that it had been disconnected. It had. For sixty years, if you dialed that number you got one of us. It dissolves into the air, an error message coiled in a computer somewhere.

Dad’s famous garage door was painted in dark colors, the last of sunset, small groups of people climbing over the hills toward the last light and the far side. He had written the title at the bottom: Night Falls.

Kyle’s birthday dinner last night at Mela’s, one of the most hospitable rooms in town. It is the first time have eaten there without throwing up.

Thin blanket of snow, brittle cold.