The Great Pyramid of Giza

I have no interest in the pyramids, but in the days leading to the trip we were meant to take together, I poured through guidebooks of ancient Egypt. I pressed my fingers against the faces of pharaohs, as if I could find answers there. Now, I bend to fit the shape of this tunnel and shuffle alone into the darkness, pulled only by some pressing need to move forward.

The way to the king’s chamber contracts and angles up so steeply that two by twos have been nailed to the limestone floor. I step from one to the other, my body curved as a question mark. The air is hot and stale and comes in small, unsatisfying sips. I had read that though their bodies were emptied of organs, and filled with sawdust, that the hearts of pharaohs were left untouched. That before they were sealed inside their tombs, their mouths were slit through layers of linen—opened—because they believed in breath in the afterlife. What did I believe in? My plans had never extended several thousand years. They had only ever pawed meekly a decade or two. A child maybe more, but that could wait. “Are you sure?” I had asked, stupidly, when he told me he had found someone else. Before that, he had been my only orbit, a single belief directing my gaze.

All at once, the climbing stops. The tunnel releases me into a rectangular room, empty, save for a granite slab, hollowed out—nothing more than a bathtub—free, now, of its pharaoh. I run my hand against the inside of its dirty length. At my feet, a cluster of dehumidifiers hum and blink, a tangle of wires, taking in, releasing, air.

What I Knew to be Clouds

My father appeared on the shore that day, fully clothed. While I treaded water, I watched the brightness of his socks disappear into the shallows and his pants turn from grey to black as he waded in after me.

On the flight over, while I’d steeled myself for what I would find once I reached the lake house—he’s changing a lot now—I watched a passenger’s service dog through the crack between the seats. I watched it press its wet nose against the window, staring out at what I knew to be clouds, and wondered what it saw there.

Since my arrival, I’d watched my father try to start the car with his wallet and to pay the restaurant bill with his keys. Each time I objected, his eyes clouded with confusion then lowered, as if he were only a boy. So while I remembered his tell-me-about-your-days, his you-can-do-better-next-times, I passed him the salad and said nothing as he wedged the whole wooden spoon inside his mouth.

Now, the silver of his belt buckle dipped beneath the surface. The sharp collar of his polo submerged. Soon, he was doggy paddling, though it was he—in that very spot—who had taught me how to front crawl. He stood, eyes closed, drips hanging then releasing from the end of his nose and cupped our lake. He held it in both hands, and washed himself, over and over.