Interlude

Ever since June 2, 2000, there is a draft in the room.

I want so desperately for my dad to see that since then, good things have happened to me. I am happy now, even though my life was in chaos (of my own making) then. At the same time, a part of me is glad that for him, there is no September 11, 2001.

From my dad's record collection: Shostakovich String Quartets Nos. 8 and 15, perf. by Fitzwilliam String Quartet.

Time almost stands still in the opening elegy...
The second movement is heralded by a succession of shrieks from each instrument in turn, these alternating with a macabre serenade which limps along as if it had lost all sense of direction, eventually losing itself in a barely-audible pedal-note on the cello...

Through the plate glass, a square of angular winter light illuminates my dad's face in the downstairs dining room. He is sitting with us, sorting through paperwork. He holds up a business card with a price written on it. It is for an item sold, but not delivered, before his death. "Do you think this is going to screw us when we sell the property?" he asks my grandfather.

Do people know they're dead?

It's not even an anniversary of anything. Why do I keep having these dreams?