As I stood underneath the water, I wondered what I’d worship as I got older,
and how that would end up bending the arc of my life this way or that. I was still at the beginning. I could still be anybody.
TWENTY-THREE
I WOKE UP THE NEXT MORNING, a Saturday, feeling truly rested, frozen rain plinking against my bedroom window.
Indianapolis winters rarely feature the sort of beautiful snow that you can ski and sled in;
our usual winter precipitation is a conglomeration called “wintry mix,” involving ice pellets, frozen rain, and wind.
It wasn’t even that cold—maybe thirty-five—but the wind was howling outside.
I got up, dressed, ate some cereal, took a pill, and watched a bit of TV with Mom.
I spent the morning procrastinating—I’d pull out my phone, start to text him, and then put it away.
Then pull it out again, but no. Not yet. It never seemed like the right time.
But of course, it never is the right time. I remember after my dad died, for a while, it was both true and not true in my mind.
For weeks, really, I could conjure him into being. I’d imagine him walking in, soaked in sweat, having finished mowing the lawn,
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