The present, regardless of what it entails, almost always comes with an in-built inertia, a resolute, robust banality. When I looked back, I felt an almost overpowering desire to relive certain moments with the recognition they deserved. My father’s funeral; my first day at Ridgecrest; my conversations with Helena as it slowly dawned on us our mother was unwell. As difficult as each of these experiences was, none of them at the time seemed remarkable. Driving the three hours between Pasadena and my apartment, I could see that this was a strategy aimed purely at my survival. Real life, present
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