My father was not a big strong man but a weak little boy. All he carried when he left was a little leather suitcase. He waved goodbye to his country of fare-not-well, lost his father at sea for several hours, and waved hello to his country of no-welcome under a sheet of snow. And there he lost his father and his mother, and found me and my brother and our mother. He made the best of the trade.
I returned to the country of fare-not-well (now three countries, but who counts?) not knowing what I wanted from my return. I suppose I wanted to reverse the spell of exile that was cast on my family, to wrestle ghosts to the ground and show them a picture of a man, not a strong man but simply a man. This is what he became, I wanted to tell those old ghosts, this is what he made of himself. Aren’t you ashamed?
My mistake: ghosts cannot feel shame. They are not like us, or rather they are exactly like us if we refuse to let go. I am a wrestler with a hold on his opponent, pushing and twisting and seeking submission. If I let go of the ghosts I am letting go of my past. I am letting go of my father, because it is time to let go. Let the ghosts wrestle each other in the dust of the country of fare-not-well. I am coming home. I will see you soon.