I don’t know why time should matter, the marking of one week to the next shouldn’t make grief any more or less burdensome, and yet, I had a terrible day yesterday. Only when I was walking home did I remember that yesterday marked two weeks since dad died, and maybe that was part of it. Only, how? Year-long anniversaries, I can understand. But two weeks? Maybe the part of my brain that likes to race to conclusions was struggling with how little time has elapsed and how much has nonetheless changed.

Last night we watched Man on Wire, the documentary about Philippe Petit’s highwire walk between the WTC towers. I was thinking about 1974 and whether my father was still working in Rockefeller Center – had they moved to New Rochelle already? – and before I could catch the sneaky little bastard the thought jumped into being, “I should ask him if he remembers it”, and that was hard.

It’s all these things I had yet to ask that sink my valiant little boat. At least I know that my dad would have thought walking on a tightrope between the tallest buildings in Manhattan was the work of a lunatic idiot. He might even have used a colorful swearword. No doubts there.