The broken windows and appliances,
the mice,
the wild,
overgrown lawn—
I recall to paint you
a picture of a kingdom fallen,
but there was no kingdom.
There was just an ordinary house in the suburbs,
one with red bricks
and vines and a hydrant out front.

I can create almost as real but more lovely.
I can rebuild our home.
I can make my father a hero.

He is own hero,
in every sense of the word
With all of the good things.

When I say that
I made a fiction out of my father,
I mean to say that
his living and his dying
were so much less than anything
my imagination could offer.

I could be practicing
my own ceremonial
practice of grief.
That seemed too
indulgent a thought.
But whatever part of me
believed in the strength of
my artistic intention—