Dad sketches, visionary dreamer of an architect, perfectionist extraordinaire drives others everywhere to their dream in reality. Family flew in from Egypt, crossing with a craft of steel, bending air to its will. Dad-grandpa makes people’s cars run and stoves burn for money, dies alone and blind—heartless. Mom-grandpa rents homes to those needing homes; church was the second home and a dangerous one. Mom coins words like bubbles rubbed against palms washing dishes, doing laundry on nights off. Dad with five brothers, mom followed suit. Work your way up, I hear. Grow and prosper, have something mean something to you. Life was prettier with less sand but food was better by the Nile. Even with revolution, grandma goes church. Grandpa smoked and died at 80 in 2003 from a heart condition. Grandma died later at 82 in 2014. She found eating silly and died blissfully, forgetting yet never forgetting, passing dimensions of the physical world seeing her family while we saw no one. On my father’s end, elders passed over before I could get a glimpse. Portraits hang too far away for imaginary comfort.

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