“It’s like there are little pieces of me buried all over the past,” Dad says. “I keep looking for them.”
“Me too,” I say. “Isn’t that what people do? Move through life, tucking pieces of themselves away. Katie used to hide treasures up in that tree behind your house. Up in the crook between the branches.”
“Your mother used to do that,” he nods. “She gets that from your mother.”
“Well, actually I got that from my mother,” I smile. “Katie got it from me.”
He laughs. “Yeah. I guess that’s true.”
—
He says: “Can you write to Aaron for me? Write him a letter that says, ‘A modest or substantial proposal.’ Put in small print, ‘any options of the reviewer are welcome.’”
I look up from my notebook. “What does this mean?”
“What?” he asks. “It’s not clear?”
“Not really.”
“Okay, wait. Write this: ‘Notes from the inside: A social worker’s point of view.’”
“Dad, what does this mean?”
“Aaron will understand,” he says. “Just send it.”
This week, I’m filling in scenes from earlier in the book. I’m remembering more. Finding more journal entries. This week, I sent out: Yes, your mother is crazy and Salamander, and Canoe. The full list of scenes is here.
It’s all from The End of Men, a memoir I started years ago. If you’re new to the project, read the first chapter here: Keys. The full list of scenes, in order, is here.
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