Papicito [Shan}

Thoughts of my father are always with me, but they are no longer forming words. When I move a certain way, I move like him. I take action with slow, careful fingers and I talk to myself about my comfort level, making wry comparisons to the situation at hand, (for instance negotiating the pit toilet and using water instead of TP. Nepal has the world's worst toilets, except for maybe Tibet, with the world's best views. Except for maybe Tibet.), thinking in images and body sensations, always quietly maximising my sensual adjustments.

This is him. He feels less dead, now that I am so far from the places where I saw him alive. On the other side of the world, I feel a commonality of circumstances. I know what he would say, I hear it in my head. Often it makes me laugh out loud.

Thunder outside. I see him alive, eyes open, nostrils flaring, as he takes in the elements, appreciates them. I see children and I feel his love response. I see pictures and he takes them.