The trip to Corpus Christi is always a time machine for me. It is the expatriate coming home and finding everything the same outside and everything changed inside. My dad and I walked the T-head docks at high, hot noon and this clock of a stump confronted me, as if I needed the reminder of the time passed. At lunch, my dad had talked with me about ashes in Ireland, his, someday. We talked about the time my brother spends sitting in a cell in west Texas. Day. After. Day. When I think of it from a distance, I just can’t believe that he chose that life–it is such an odd, hard path. My dad comments on my graying hair. I am hopping fences to my childhood park and reveling in memories of banana bikes, clean white sand at the beach, the surge of being alive at 18 with no reflection, just the act(ion) of living at full throttle. And my graying hair, my process now of reflection and learning and growing. It is an amazing trip, this life. I love it.