My nose wouldn’t stop bleeding. It was the winter of 2019, and I was standing outside the Brooklyn Museum in front of a statue of a woman carved from granite. Her neck was strong, her arms thick. Our chins were both held high––hers with confidence, mine to stop the blood. Chronic nosebleeds had long been a childhood affliction, but at 28, I thought I’d grown out of them.
Moments earlier, I had run into my former piano instructor. “Didn’t your father just die?” he asked. “How old was he? Were you with him?”
“Eight months ago,” I said, shivering. “He was 85. I was holding his hand.”
From there, he deflected, talking about the recent passing of his dog. And then he’d said, “Well, 85. That’s a pretty good run,…
