I was down in the basement, in the room where I grew up. My father stood silently at the top of the stairs watching me pack dirty laundry neatly into my duffel bag. We were going on a trip. He wanted to say something. I finished packing and went up the stairs, went quickly around him, walked outside hoping he wouldn’t talk, hoping he wouldn’t follow me. He didn’t follow me, but he did speak. And I can’t remember what he said, can’t remember anymore what his voice sounded like.

It’s getting late and I should go to the store. Get some soap and some cookies and milk. Some frozen thing for lunch tomorrow too. I don’t eat right. I know I don’t eat right. Maybe my father was trying to warn me.