I smell cat food on my fingers and popcorn on my breath.
I see squiggly lines in front of me and hear the heat pump hum.

How long does it take to recover from mourning the death of my father’s mind?

Minds do not exist, in the classic sense.

It’s a game of cat-and-mouse.

Dagger and cloak.

Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer…

For whom the bell tolls.

My father served in the 4th Infantry, long before this 1970 report summarised lessons learned.

He is alive and yet not alive.

That is, he who was he is not he any longer.

Him who was is no more, but not nevermore.

‘Tis memories I relive in my current/future living.

There are memories to be made, observations to make, medical diagnoses to contemplate.

And/but yet.

Edgar Allan Poe went to West Point.  He died at 40 years of age.

Soon, I will be 50 years young, halfway to 100, where life starts all over again.

Like a paper folded in two.

Or a projectile at the top of its trajectory.

My father is one pathway of my life 27 years from now.

One way the past is the future all over again.

A paddled cruise down the Sipsey River, for instance — same places, new water, new trees, new wildlife.

Heard a barred owl in the woods behind the house this evening while Merlin (the cat) snoozed on my lap in the sunroom.

How many generations of owls and cats have passed in 50 years?

Or 77?

How many more in 100?