Jim’s father passed away in December of last year.
The months since have been filled with the monumental task of sorting through his house.
And though the home he left was radically organized by the time I got there,
I could see the remnants of the maze.
The decisions that retained what was left.
Boxes filled with potential one might entertain.
The tools to make.
The things that were made.
Paintings stacked in vague arrays.
Drawers of collections.
Shelves heavy with stubbornness.
Walls yellowed by nicotine.
Curiosities of intrigue, humor.
It all added up to a character that I wished I’d known better.
And yet I do know the man he raised, and I consider him with maximum regard.
I don’t profess to know what comprises our spirit,
but I figure a chunk of it involves everyone who crosses our path.
And I’m not sure how this all fits together, but having Jim tour me around his father’s house
I considered all these notions at once, felt the pride, frustration and love.
We take the little pieces we can, and try to make sense of them.