In the summer of 1972, President Richard M. Nixon denied any knowledge of the five burglars who entered the office of the Democratic National Committee, the last US combat troops finally departed from a naval stronghold in Southern Vietnam, and I went to Savannah to die. I had never been to Georgia before. I knew of Savannah only from what I’d learned in the tones and faces of oil-painted jazz legends and in the subtle memories spilled quietly by my father years before. But in the sticky climate of that hot, political summer, I was determined to find a peace I had never known.

I had not been home, back to the vineyard in almost three decades. That place carried sadness for me. But this was an occasion I couldn’t miss, I wouldn’t let myself. I hadn’t spoken to him in four years, not since our last fallout. I regretted it, all the way to the airport, in the terminal, sitting on the plane and looking out along the clouds. A feeling, a burden, a stomach fire building as I got closer to The Valley. Uncle James picked me up from the airport. Seeing him, his graying beard, his rosy, sun‐burnt cheeks and glassy eyes… He reminded me of dad. My father, to whom I hadn’t spoke in so long, whom I hadn’t seen since Carrie and I were married. My father, who had died last night, taking with him any chance I had of saying good bye, of telling him I was sorry.