Whalefall

Jay's not sure he believes in therapy. He definitely doesn't believe in closure. People aren't doors. They're whole floor plans, entire labyrinths, and the harder you try to escape, the more lost inside them you become.

No one carries the best parts of themselves. The best parts are those held inside of others.

(We are sorry we never asked questions) (We wanted to know but were afraid) "Of what?" (Answers to questions have weight) (And we wanted to stay light) (We are sorry)

Seventy percent of the planet is water. Most of that water is deep ocean. The origin of everything. Less than 5 percent of the deep ocean is mapped. Humans know more about Mars. Anything could be down there. Therefore, everything is.

A single life is nothing but a spark. The explosion is everything after death, the generations of reverberation. Every consumed morsel of your body, your wisdom, your kindness, your art, is another bid for perfection, a chance to get it right this time, or next time, or the time after that.

If you can’t know what’s right in front of you, you can’t know what’s beyond you.

Don’t sons have responsibilities, too? The answer is yes, they do. To hold their fathers accountable.

What always felt brutal to Jay about the natural world now feels like its most elegant design. We all eat each other, like Hewey said. That's why we live forever.

Let me tell you the lesson of this prophet. Truth never outweighs mercy.

Jay didn’t find his dad’s remains. He is his dad’s remains. He breathes sleepy at last.

There need be no struggle when we are all the same weight.

(There is no fighting when there is no way to win)

Good memories are all around. It only took dying for him to rub the sleep from his eyes and see them clearly again.

(All of our so-called successful men are sick men)

Did you know sailors and angels are homophones in Hebrew?

Steinbeck called this ‘the hour of the pearl.’ ” It’s dusk, the dusk of dusk, an unblurred luster.

In all the art Jay’s seen, sperm whales are barges of fat. But when the whale before him curls its fluked tail to the side, muscles larger than Jay pull tight, pinching seams through the blubber. It must be the strongest thing that ever lived, matched only by its unexpected grace. It holds the pose: a comma in a sentence so large only gods can read it.

Mitt’s dying plea, Don’t break my heart, don’t break my heart, don’t break my heart. Dad’s whisper, at last, gives Jay permission to do the opposite. (Break it)

That’s all right. Every hour of the pearl, you realize you’ve lost pages too. More and more pages until”—he whistles—“you’re all gone.

The simple sharing of hope, its weight not so heavy after all, is a wonder.

But those three people waiting outside are the tones of Jay's voice, the organs in Jay's body.

Jay didn't find his dad's remains. He is his dad's remains.

(We are dying now) (There is no changing that) (But you Jay) (There is strength in you yet)

Witnessing is of limited value when there’s no one to read the chronicle. Unless the story becomes its own teller, scribed through DNA, surfacing in Nan’s and Eva’s children, some knowledge in their guts of things sowed and reaped, lost and gained.

If you can’t know what’s right in front of you

Jay. Baby. Your dad’s got cancer.” The first thing Jay feels is offended by Mom’s quavering tone, her obvious expectation that Jay will break down and rush home, everything that happened between him and his dad forgotten. As if contracting cancer is a deed so selfless it erases everything past.

Look at the stomach. Really look at it. See the wagon trails traced through vessels and fat. See Jupiter’s storms. Valleys of fire. Collapsing constellations. A million teardrops. Paths through forests. Dinosaurs, future dinosaurs. A yellow crescent moon. Men, women, snakes. Kissing lips. The silver ritual of rings. Bunches of pink balloons. The curve of a lover’s back. Baby chub. Elderly wrinkles. Cracked continents. The wrong road. A flood. Things drowned and ascended. Snowfall. A tree to climb. Spiderwebs. Solar flares. Shh. See it?

The whale’s time is passing fast now. But the females stick close, do what they can. They are the whale’s family now. Which means the whale is home. Jay wonders how it feels for Mitt, sender of so many clicks over his seven-month demise, to be the subject of such a reception, to feel the bodies of loved ones so close inside the ocean vast. There’s nothing to hug in a stomach, but Jay does his best. He wants the whale to know he’s here. At last, he’s here.