For My Father on Dia De Los Muertos
Your Wasteland took me by surprise last winter. I had thought the dim memory of where you lived so much of the time was worked out, worked through.
Ernie with his alligator
I remember months of Late Night with David and pints of Ben and Jerry’s, when all I could really feel was a distant gratitude for the ants that cleaned my kitchen. The therapist’s room where I identified the Wasteland, and that it was yours, a lineage memory of pain so deep it annihilated all emotion, and left a cold, dry, lifeless terrain where nothing grew. No possibility of life, of green, of juice. I had tripped into the Bel-Boyd legacy, and it took years to find my way out of that vast, stark land.
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