The Visitation

After his death, I shuffle through the contents of my father’s study:
Japanese figurines on the wall, drawings for new pagodas and
hexagons to build. There, neatly lined in a row: five video tapes
with our names labeled in large black letters, waiting for just this
moment. I hand them out,

place one in the machine that brings him back to life. Watch him
recall the fleeting days of childhood: running through the orange
groves of L.A., the treks to Venice Beach, riding his bike, alone,
everywhere—returning home in the evening exhausted and aglow.
For the first time, he is young inside us: the red cheeks, faces
burning wet.