Right before the doors slam shut and we leave, by the way, we stand on the front porch, father and son, father and daughter, as it were, eye to eye. I know he sees in my eyes some distant look, some certainty I can’t quite name, but it’s enough. Before I left for Europe, right before the doors closed, he took my hand in his and told me something I’d long needed to hear: You’re my son.
Even in your dreams you see the world in its plain shape, the little bricks and interruptions, the black things that could be doors, the white things that could be nights themselves. You always know which is which, you remember the differences so well, so well. And you’re not in love any more. That’s what I’m trying to teach myself, and it’s why I have to teach you, because what I’m going to say might make you hate me.
There was a time, a short period of time when you were in high school, before the world went all in, when you could believe there was still a kind of center in the world, a center which would hold everything in its place, the stars in the sky, for instance, though their own orbits might be above or beyond this center, but for all that they were rooted in it, they stayed put, or at least made you believe they were.
It took a matter of years for you to reach that point of belief, for you to realize that you’d been deceived by everything, that you’d lived for periods of time as if the center would hold, but it never did, and there was only the world, and everyone floating through it, no one watching the world, no one watching each other, no one listening in any real way, before the world. d2c66b5586