"So will the both of you get married this August or September? Tell me me about her." Silence in the face of a question repeatedly asked by my father. I can't bring myself to say it. If I say it, it'll become real. If I say it, I acknowledge the actuality. The words I fear to speak would thoroughly trace the outline of where she once was, an outline where the memory remains so vivid that I feel her head against my chest in each other's embrace. Yahweh, please, I beg you; help m...