Eleven is drawn with parallel lines. Parallel lives.
In one, my son survived. He is with us in England, in the rain; or we are still in California, in drought. He is like me at that age--obsessed with science and discovery; or like his mother, he is at the piano, practicing. He is like neither of us, in surprising ways. Ways we will never guess.
I inhabit life on the other rail instead. It is definitely England, definitely raining, and I have become a poet. Science and engineering failed to show me how to address the vast inner landscapes I felt pressing from an early age. Miłosz, Dostoevsky, and Mahler succeeded. Subjectivity is the enemy of science, but the lifeblood of poetry.
Objectively, our son is gone. Subjectively, he is everywhere.
I am not a monorail. I am the smoke drifting up from a neighbour's chimney, and I am the chimney, and I am the air.
Only at the place where parallel lines intersect, only there, at the point of points, can this all make sense.
One day I will join you in the space between lines. Until then, of each day I will try to make some kind of poetry, and in it, a space for you to dwell.
Godspeed, James, my son.