A photo of my father in a frame on my desk–I miss him. I see him clearly when I focus–I do not have to close my eyes to see him. I do not though see him as I do a person sitting on my couch, but I can see him as he had sat on my couch, talking as he talked, gesturing as he gestured whenever he talked as he would. There really isn’t a day that goes by when I do not think of him. Or so I say because I imagine I must think that I need to believe that I believe so . . . and so I do. I am not always at my desk, not every day. But there are so many things I do that I would have done with him, both myself as an adult and recollections of myself as a child. But then I have said before that a lot of memory is fiction, what we make out of fragments in memory? What then must I say? I do miss him. I do talk to the photo of him as I do talk to him, and yes, sometimes I am able to have conversations as we had; not recollected conversations, but new and present conversations. How are the dead not alive in the mind?