I know you like I know my great-grandmother. She was in photographs. I heard stories of how kind she was, and how stubborn. She decided she’d never give birth after the first time and that was that. She never had sex after that. She had white hair by the time she was 35, and Great-Grandpa died young so I don’t think I can recommend it as a lifestyle. She used to read dog stories to my dad and they’d cry together and it was the only time in his life my dad ever showed his feelings to anyone. I’d like to meet her. If she could get my dad to cry, I think we should talk.

There aren’t any real pictures of you. Well, there aren’t any good ones. Pasty-faced Jesus and big fireballs don’t count. There are plenty of stories. You’re imaginative, I’ve got to give you that, and you don’t seem  to give up easily. Tenacious, I’d say, if you want to be friends with me (though I don’t have a guarantee on that). We don’t think the same way, you and I. You’re a mystery but you are enormous, like the inside of a black hole thrown outward so all its bits are spread over the boundaries between our universe and another we haven’t discovered yet.  I feel ridiculous when I’m upset with you. I’d like to meet you. I think I’d start by asking you to read sad dog stories and wait to see if you cried. If so, we might be able to talk.