One January evening in 1947 I thought I heard a nightingale. I wouldn't have heard the bird were it not for Father. It would have been the evening of an ordinary travel day in our migration east were it not for Father. We would not have been in the car heading for Chicago at all were it not for Father. It had been his idea to accept the call to St. Stephen's Lutheran Church...

Spinning we fall, clenching, unfurling, always learning more of falling. Always closer, land uncurling, simply heeding matter's calling...

Moist heat fogged Phillips' glasses as he stepped into the steamy washroom. He searched for an empty sink but each one had a man standing before it, squinting into a smeary mirror, combing his hair or brushing his teeth. Phillips clutched the white towel around his thin waist and walked over to the row of metal shower stalls...