Ghosts Scattered Among the Stars and My Father’s Ashes in the Ganga
On space debris and a father's remains.
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When I search for my father, I feel his numbers. Here’s a house number on my friend’s street that mimics the first few digits of my father’s phone. Here, at the 7/11, my receipt totals the amount of the last four digits of his SSN.
When Americans consume media that privileges white survival, what does it mean for which disasters earn our attention, our money, our likes, our grief?
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I whisper to my great-grandmother a burden I’d like lifted, one she might take to the next world with her.
Supermarket Sweep is what gets me the closest, catapulting me back to a time when we were alive, together.