Heavy box of Dad’s cremains, cloaked in a burgundy velvet bag, on my lap. Reassuringly heavy. Look up in corner of room at a still spider. Is that you, Dad? How do you see us?  Can you see all of us, all the time?  Can you zone out?  Why would you care about our minutiae anymore?  Or do you just know it all, all the time?

Reed said his dad died on December 27th. Is it contagious?