I’m thinking about my dad. I visited his grave the other day on my way back to KC; I cleaned it off and dug the dirt out of the letters on the tombstone with my fingernails. There were no flowers. I walked around. I laid down. I miss his big hands and tattoos.

I was carving wood today and I thought of him. The layers of the wood reminded me of skin, of decomposition. I remembered his body lying in the bed. I remembered his bruised blue and purple hands and feet. I remember my mom crying. Her birthday was the following day.

I remember the first time I ate corn on the cob. He taught me how to eat it. Lawn mowing, flower-picking, seven bean soup, log cabin, vanilla ice cream every night. I remember all these things he did. He never left me out.

Memories are bittersweet.

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