Like Baby Driver, I rampage through corridors of memory with the reckless car of my grief. I’m looking for him, and I can’t find him. My Dad. He is snow. No, snow is too soft. He is the sound of snow. He is the hiss of it falling in the dark. The way it is blind to everything but itself. I eat some holly berries to choke, (I don’t) I want to forget every blank Christmas forever. I’m doing it again: I’m saying things that matter. Winter is a season of theater; I wear its icy drama like a tailored coat. I rehearse following the hearse of my estranged father to the cemetery. I carry his coffin in my mind and I’m ALL SIX pallbearers. The Moon is the only guest. She whispers, count the hours since he left. I count past stars and across galaxies until I find a convenience store on Mars. It’s called Stop. His orange Volkswagen Beetle is parked out front, bright as a pumpkin, as real as absence. The Moon says, This film is a classic. I am not sleeping. I am awake. You are alive, Richard. I cancelled my Hello Fresh subscription, and even they sent their automated regret. Can you hear how low budget this landscape is? How esoteric is this film? I have watched the terrible edits. I watch the celluloid drop to the ground in the editing room. It is just reels and reels of my life, and you are holding the splicer.