Today eight years ago a silent thing happened and that thing was really an unthing, an undoing, it was a death and the person who died was my father.
Today I attended the last class of my degree. These are remarkable things, and that's why I'm marking them by writing, but I feel so ordinary.
I don't really believe that death is the end of someone's influence and I don't really believe that I'll stop learning. Some sort of passage has been marked by the arbitrary ascription of numbers to days, and without those numbers there would not be these anniversaries. I carry my fathers death everyday like I am a little holy shrine. More and more the things I do and say seem more and more like the things he did and said, which makes me feel like death is just a veiling, biology prevails.
Today I attended the last class of my degree. These are remarkable things, and that's why I'm marking them by writing, but I feel so ordinary.
I don't really believe that death is the end of someone's influence and I don't really believe that I'll stop learning. Some sort of passage has been marked by the arbitrary ascription of numbers to days, and without those numbers there would not be these anniversaries. I carry my fathers death everyday like I am a little holy shrine. More and more the things I do and say seem more and more like the things he did and said, which makes me feel like death is just a veiling, biology prevails.
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