Ghosts Scattered Among the Stars and My Father’s Ashes in the Ganga
On space debris and a father's remains.
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When I search for my father, I feel his numbers. Here’s a house number on my friend’s street that mimics the first few digits of my father’s phone. Here, at the 7/11, my receipt totals the amount of the last four digits of his SSN.
When Americans consume media that privileges white survival, what does it mean for which disasters earn our attention, our money, our likes, our grief?
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When your maternal grandmother dies from breast cancer, there’s this strange intersection between her health and your mother’s health and yours.
I had tried to show the world that I was resilient, never fallible, but my unwillingness to deal with my sadness and anger was hurting me and my daughter.