More rain. It has not let up for the week I’ve been back. I come downstairs and watch Dad from the stoop as he tucks into the woods on the east side of the property, where the artesian spring–fed pond has urged its waters wider and wider over the years, swamped over with the crud of plants and small creatures. His orange slicker gleams against the verdant cedars and then he is gone for more than half an hour. When he returns to the house, he is clutching rocks that he lets spill out onto the kitchen table in front of me. I am bleary with sodden dream and a regret that won’t be pinned down.
“Trilobite,” he says, pointing.
“Nice.”
“And this one. Trace fossil.” A trace fossil is the contrail of a ground creature that’s been immortalized in stone. “The path of some meandering fool who died
