When you believe in things that you don’t understand, then you suffer
Stevie Wonder, Superstition
I am an orphan now. My mother seems barely gone. In fact, too close to make the first line of this thing really stick. But my father died years ago in Orange County, California, while I was under a bed in Beirut in a cellar or wrapped up like a hot dog in the bun of a mattress, as the shells came in from the USS New Jersey in the Mediterranean or Druze positions, in the Bekaa or south from the festering horror of the Shatilla camps or Israel or maybe, the random red-eyed stoners with RPGs and AK 47s for whom the whole world was a day off school with spectacular toys. We didn’t go outside in those days. The forecast was likely for light to scattered lead in the morning and great clouds of it just before midnight.