My friend Andrea Scarpino writes below of the art of father-remembrance, a matter for which we have no true word in English and so I must hyphenate two nouns. The clock goes on with its minutes and small steeping. Tea resolves in the cup. Yet there remain days when, long after one’s father has died, you hear again that singular voice. Listen: your father who you miss laughs and unselfconsciously shares a ribald story or he tells you again about his grandfather who wrote graffiti, not on buildings but in library books. The clock goes on with its tiny minutes. The books are ineffectual. Tea resolves in the cup but I tell you the tea is very sad.
S.K.
Planet of the Blind 