Whenever a nurse asks if my father               is still alive, I tell them he died                              years ago, trying to save a terrierfrom a house fire. Something               flows between us—pity, reverence.                              Of course it’s a lie. He was struckby a car in front of our house—               slumped like a bag of trash,                              a smear on the side of the street.But I want his death to hold               gravity, as vast as my grief.                              So it’s less of a lie and moreof a myth—a better ending for the man               who taught me never to fear                              dangerous things. Like the hornethe trapped in an old pickle jar.               Like the blue crab who broke                              into our garage. He knelt for it,scooping it into the bowl of his hands.              Of course it pinched him.                              I almost think that’s why he did it.