My father was a man who savored every detail. At yard sales, he’d carefully help me select antiques, as he scrutinized the intricacies of each and every piece. He knew stat, after stat, after stat of practically every baseball player to have ever existed, so much I couldn’t concentrate on game itself. He took pleasure in finding me the right beanbag chair, with just enough beans to be comfy but not too many to point where it became stiff. Oh no, stiff was not good. He made sure his Saturday pancakes had just the right amount of blueberries and batter, settling for nothing less than a fantastic combination. He was my dad, the guy I always looked up to.

So as I peered into the room, day in and day out, and only saw a man, practically a stranger, trapped in darkness, frozen in silence, I was never really sure what to do. The depression had taken the life out of out of him, and with it went the detail.

Now, after 12 years of anticipating an explanation for anything at any possible moment, it becomes impossible to forget the concept of details. And so…after it vanished from him, guess what? I couldn’t let go. I couldn’t let go of the details. And I still can’t.