Alone in his bed, a fifty-one- year- old man dies in a Phoenix suburb trailer park. As his soul rises from his body, it transforms into a luminous orb and shoots like a star across the western sky. It’s late December and he’s my father, though unknown to me. His death will go unnoticed for days. Nearly twenty-five hundred miles to the north and east, I sit in a black velvet dress sipping Malbec at a Lincoln Center bar off Broadway and Sixty-Fifth Street. The afterglow of the opera shines like a halo around me. I’ve got a major crush on the bass-baritone who commanded the evening’s performance, and I learn from the bartender that said hunk is in a booth at the back of the restaurant. I close my tab and add a tall of Himself ’s favorite drink to the bill before settling up.
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