This is life, my grandfather in the hospital, I can only imagine how white everything is. Who is looking after him, the nurse? my mother, my family—these are the wings we ride on. I imagine myself lying there, wondering about the beeps, the tubes, the doctor who holds my life in his hands. Who is this man, how can he save me. Mortal, and ripening.

It reminds me of my youth, days spent exploring antique stores with my parents. Hours wrestling in the back seat of the minivan, my father turning from the road: “Don’t make me stop the car!”. The Colorado pond became the first connection, my grandfather stringing half-dead trout in the water. “Why don’t you kill them?” I would say. “They look like they are suffering”.
I never really liked the taste of fish.