His father is dying. He's reading out loud from papers stamped by the United States Naval Office and invitations to Baby's First Christening. Say you remember Terre Haut. I've never felt death, but I felt it in your hands there but distant like some unattainable idea that brushes by ones mind, then unthinkably disappears into the distance. And, it was cold. Come back to me. The break in his voice. Smell of wet flannel soaking up alligator tears. Cheek depressions left on a leather jacket. That expanding exponent of helplessness. Holding in a good, long cry. "Make it past the doorway, atleast". Being Edward Hopper's "Lonely Woman Looking out the Window". Cubular panes of plexiglass, some neurotic geometry teacher installed using electrical tape. No clouds. Those yellow accordion folders slicing Tom Brady's face on the front page of USA Today. Smell of the handkerchief from Dad's jeans pocket. "Don't apologize, there's nothing to be sorry for." Where is that twinkle in his eye?