Ten days ago I left Toronto, tired and sick, and traveled across the Atlantic, hoping water and sky could make me well again. I wanted to respond to your letter, though I don’t know if there are answers to your questions, since what words point to is so delicate, almost unsayable.

To love the questions themselves as if they were locked rooms or books written in a foreign language. Maybe it’s time to leave the church of what we used to care about, the old ways, our cherished beliefs, our home.

I came to you wearing the face of a dog that’s used to being beaten. You did what you had to do. Maybe now it’s time to leave that church too. I can’t see you again daddy, but I wish you well.