Last week I received an envelope in the mail, the address written in my father’s hand. My heart accelerated a little and it struck me as unseemly, at my age and in my circumstances, to be still so easily rattled by a parent.

The envelope was light – inside I found only a newspaper clipping and a small note. I spread them out on the kitchen bench. A friend was staying with me – a recent acquaintance – and I had the odd experience of my new life moving about the room while my old, half-buried life rose up out of the newspaper print.