Excerpt:

It is half a year since my son's suicide. Timothy Alan Eysselinck, forty, Captain, Ranger, father, hunter, contractor overseeing mine removal in Iraq, Republican, idealist, perfectionist, gun nut, my firstborn, my baby. I would like, still, to sit staring into the beautiful baffle of trees outside my study window, raging if it takes me that way, letting the tears well if I please, floating, disassociating on the intricate veining of the confederate ivy, which holds each leaf open as the palm of a hand. Instead I invert my own hands on what, for me, truly serve as keys; because this is how I unlock sense in the fleeting world. Because those who have tried to write honestly have helped me to make such sense...

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