Last night you watched an old t.v. series from the 1970s. As part of your research on Little House on the Prairie you have been watching a lot of old t.v. series for context, in addition to watching Little House itself, which you do when you wake up this morning. This all excavates the 1970s and 1980s, sitting in front of the t.v., the bowling nights or the Scout meetings that made you miss this episode, or being shushed because you might wake the baby from laughing too hard at that episode, or eating a t.v. dinner while watching this other.

On Facebook, a friend posts a picture of herself as a baby in the arms of her father. Today is the first anniversary of his death. Another friend, a cousin through your mother’s father, just lost her mother in the past week. She still lives in that numb, shocked, surreal phase.

By 10 am, every rational fiber of your being fights every other fiber to get your body showered, dressed, made up, coiffed, and off to teach. You feel the friction of these fibers in your body as a physical sensation.

Only once do you nearly veer onto two wheels and tip: the most exhilarating feeling of the day. At 6:00, the ugly resentment bubbles to the surface and you begin to bleed anger.

In the car, on the way to the grocery store, the guest on the podcast — meant to distract you from your bile — tells a story that begins with living through Katrina. You remember that time, how your parents got your grandmother out at the last minute. How you watched helplessly from New England, where had helped you move from Indianapolis just a year earlier because you had broken your arm and he wouldn’t let you move alone with a broken arm, and you drove together in the van with your car trailing behind. How he had to put up with your rescued grandmother turning the t.v. up to twenty-one until he could get her new hearing aids because she had left hers behind in the rush to leave New Orleans and then it was only turned up to eleven. How he went back to New Orleans to survey the damage before he would let her go back and the only real loss was the refrigerator because of the lack of electricity had caused everything inside to rot. How he said it was probably a mercy that he just taped it closed and put it out to be hauled away since, child of the Depression that she was, she had “leftovers” in there dating back to the last time the refrigerator broke down in the ’70s, and then she had “leftovers” that dated back to the ’50s when she had moved into the house. How he went to get her when she broke her hip a year and a half later. How you were down there when that happened, visiting Texas because your mother was having an operation. How your brother brought your nephew to visit, too, and how your nephew was carrying strep. How you caught the strep and your dad took you to the doctor. How he ended up with three infirm women on his hands…and you arrive at the grocery store where over the loudspeakers a song, in minor key, plays from that period of time.

You cannot stop yourself from crying. You cannot stop crying. You leave. The dark cold is the feeling of “gone.” Yawning, tangible, shocking in its immediacy.

His funeral was on a Thursday, twenty-three weeks ago.