Your letters, John, speak of devastation—of self-splitting and secrets, of swimming in one pool and ending up in your neighbor’s. Such is how you measured life: you describe fixing bannisters, of a labrador named Bethesda. By now your sons have died; one ran a marathon with a broken heart, the other fell asleep in a tree and plunged. My condolences, John. In the fourth letter you mention that in Ireland shivering in sunlight means that a man is standing on your future grave. What does it mean, John, that the sun is so bright, so warm for a day that grips the throat like a leather noose—a day like today, when you have taken your leave and bobbed like a carrot in your swimming pool before the final sink? What does it mean, in this bright midday light, that I am so cold, John—should I find the man standing on my grave? Since you have gone to the last place, can you ask around and when you find the man and the spot where my future falls, can you tell me if it’s as warm as the sun?