People die. All the time. Physically, mentally, emotionally. They die and they leave us behind to work it out without them. When my dad died and I saw him, what struck me first were his skinny ankles and weirdly elongated feet in their grey woollen socks, sticking out from the sheet that barely covered him. They are the thing imprinted on my mind when I think of my dad and his being dead. And then when I saw him a week later in the funeral parlour, his face a livid purply red, creased in the agony of the heart attack that killed him, I didn’t know him as my dad. The funeral director looked disappointed when I said it didn’t look like him. I felt bad, so I told her it was because he didn’t have his glasses on. I don’t know why I felt I had to make her feel better about the fact that the man I thought of as Dad had been taken away and returned in an altered state. Politeness perhaps. I was 39 years old when he died, the same age he was when I was born. That doesn’t mean anything, but I like the symmetry.