Trauma has split my father into talking bone chips
Nicole Oquendo on the urns we live with @ Hippocampus Magazine.
There’s not much about my father that I actually know. What I think I know now is that he’s getting skinnier by the year and old enough to stop doing things as he used to. Until the last few years or so, my father, in his sixties, passed for forty to strangers. He’s been shaving his head for years to erase any grey, which is only now starting to come through into his goatee. You used to be able to see the muscles in his arms through his shirts. He used to lift weights in our garage.
My mother’s apartment is small, with a few prints covering the otherwise bare walls and a couple of couches to sit on. She refuses to use the air conditioner in 80-degree Florida heat because it raises the electric bill; while I wipe at my face, I tell her I worry about him being so old and living in such a big house. But you know he’s not that old, my mother says. And you know him, pretending to be younger or older than he is so he can get shit. She’s right, too. He changes ages in conversation depending on which is convenient.It heard on the news that at least 4,900 to 6,600 bodies in graves among the 333,000 buried at Arlington National Cemetery are not where people think they are. The Senate projected this error rate after a sample of three sections of the cemetery showed 211 mishandled graves.
Nico Chiapperini @ Positive Magazine