I had said that I wanted – that I needed – to narrate this process, this journey through the experience of my father’s death. But it’s hard. I return to my bed (so far from home) at the end of each day and I am fatigued to the very tippy-toes of my soul. So while I am narrating this experience, constantly, to myself, by myself, in whispers to myself, my aching fingers just aren’t getting it down.

Time. I need time. Time to not be so tired and heart-sore. Time to sort through the eleventeen questions swirling through my head. Questions about his death and his life and about life and death in general. And questions like this:

1) Is there such a thing as ghosts, other than as the figurative representation of that feeling we have that someone is always with us?

2) Is it wrong to want to be haunted? To be afraid to be haunted, and yet to desire it with every fiber of your being?

3) How does one bring the traditions of one’s family religion into the process of dealing with death when both the dead and the living are lapsed – ambivalently lapsed, but intentionally lapsed?

4) God doesn’t mind when you get really, really mad at Him, right?

5) And he hears when you tell yourself that you’re not that mad, really. Just sad. Right?

6) Because he can read your mind, right?

5) Can ghosts read your mind? Like, say, God?

Like I said, I’m struggling, and confused. Bear with me.