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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Maybe, over time, the ephemera of Jack’s life will become less explosive, like a landmine whose triggering mechanism has eroded, rendering it harmless.
There is no guidebook or set of rules for us to follow; there is no concrete “American” etiquette around death.