My father, after my mother died, had fallen apart. It’s possible that he was always apart, and my mother had just, for many years and with great effort, held him together. Or perhaps he fell apart in a manner that many men of his generation would have after the woman who had done every practical thing in their lives for them for years died. His falling apart didn’t seem to cause him concern. Or perhaps it did and he just couldn’t fathom what to do about it. And so he did nothing.
