Clem and Bill

 My parents.  Not a day goes by without my mind straying to them, replaying scenes, re-interpreting what happened,  trying to weave a narrative that makes sense.  Some part of my brain is always knitting away at this, but by the end of the day, it all unravels, and the next day I begin again.

In San Francisco in the late 1940's, before I was born

Are there people out there, I wonder, who had such a healthy, or at least largely unambivalent,  relationship with their parents that they aren't doing this?   My mother has been dead for 20 years, my father for 15. I never go to their graves in San Jose, but I visit them in my head every day.  I wonder if I'll ever give it up.