After you all were out of college, your father was able to go on some digs, something he had always dreamed about doing. When he wasn’t doing that, university life absorbed him, with meetings and classes and committees, and research in the library. And things can happen under those conditions. It is like the weather report when they say that all conditions are right for a tornado. It doesn’t necessarily mean that one will hit and destroy your house and the rest of your life, but it does mean that there is a threat, that you should look up and pay attention. I know I sound like Mrs. Smythe, whom you never met, and wouldn’t have liked if you had, since she grew old and very bitter in those later years, but still, there is truth there. Things can and do happen. And it is one of those things that often requires the right conditions and circumstances.

Mortality calls us all in very different ways. I was called to witness and be there for others, volunteering with the sick and dying, maybe because their grief felt so familiar to me and when I focused on them, I wouldn’t have to think about my own hurts. What I didn’t see clearly enough back then (or for quite a few angry years after) was that your father was also hurting, lonely and hurting, wanting to stay young and strong and above it all.

As I said, it really comes down to the desire to be immortal.

Still, your father has lately pitched death like one of his adventurous trips or a romantic rendezvous. Once, he said, “Let’s go together,” as if he were suggesting church, the movies, Disneyland. He pointed to the cigarette I held burning between my fingers, as he has done for the past 60+ years, marveling that I still smoke in an age when so few do, that I don’t seem to care the way people look at me with shock as if I were stupid not to care more about my health, the way I have gotten used to the frowning and social rejection reserved for people who have contagious diseases and cough out into the open air, the way some people even stare in disbelief when they learn about my history with fire and the power of a single match. Frank reminded me that I have emphysema, in case I had forgotten (!!). He said that my lungs are shriveled and drowning, and his heart is about to explode, and both of us have brains that aren’t what they are supposed to be. He said even if he wanted surgery, he’s too old to be put under and have his chest cracked open, and he refuses to give up living for some pale imitation of living.

“Let’s go,” he said. “We can find a better word for it all.”

“A better word.”