Dear John

When our fathers died, so too a light. Or maybe we understood need differently.
July heartbeats heat, almost unbearable in its consequence. I have a hard time
believing vulnerability will save me. I think of all of the objects lost, my father’s
possessions, books and ball caps, sweater vests and vinyl records. What stuff
makes a life? Over every threshold, a new opportunity, though I seldom
wish to pursue it as rule of thumb. What our fathers taught us. You tell me
your children are perfectly loved, generational curse broken. We can barely
see the cracks if held to the sky. I remember my nervous system, the fragility
of absence, when the violence struck. What would it be like to be perfectly loved?
I would not know. If there is an afterlife. If there is an afterlife, I cannot promise
I will see you there, or my father, or your father. All of the fathers, a nightmare
corner of heaven or blunt rotation. I will leave you all there together,
with your perfect love, your violences, your broken intimacies and redemptions.