One afternoon, I walked in calling “Here I am,” as usual. I realize now that I would announce myself this way as a counter to his blindness, but it’s still the phrase I speak when I visit the grave, or sometimes when I walk into the empty house. As soon as he heard my greeting he smiled and declared, with a mixture of astonishment and tenderness, “But we’re the same person. When did that happen?” As if he’d been waiting all day to say it. I agreed up and down right away, yet I’ve also brooded on it longer than almost anything he ever said. I think the reason for the “But” is that this was his
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