Ever since my dad admitted how his mother died, I have been a bit haunted and consumed with an agitated energy. I can't explain it except to say that I feel stressed out. I feel like I have to go to Iran and get to the bottom of this because nobody else will and soon all the witnesses will be dead. The thought of going to Iran and what I imagine will be emotionally-intensive interviews (even harder than the ones I did last time I was there) weighs on me, but I know it has to be done. I think it helps me to stress out about the logistical things that have to be accomplished because emotionally, I feel very flat and disassociated.

At this point, my creative life and my social life have somewhat melded, so I guess I'm just looking forward to seeing my dude tonight and reveling in the great fact that I could fuck him or dump him and I am my paternal grandmother's granddaughter, and there is no way in hell anyone could have even begun to imagine that when they held her head under water until she stopped kicking and breathing. You cannot stop the inertia of what is going to happen anyway.

How I found out

I took my dad to the "Bodies" exhibit at the South Street Seaport when he visited this past weekend. Having scheduled activities like this are usually key with interacting with my father since we don't usually have much to say to each other outside of arguing. We paused at each glass-enclosed case, gazing upon the preserved organs.

"This is a lung infected with tuberculosis," I explained to him, pointing at a blackened lump.

"My father died of that," he said. "But he didn't have it. They thought he did, so they sent him to the hospital and he got it there."

"Didn't your mother die of tuberculosis also?" I asked him, fishing. (It is my conjecture that she was murdered in an honor killing since everyone tells me another story, and since they burned all of her belongings and images of her except one photograph which I stole from a great-uncle's album). My father was raised by his grandmother.

"No, she didn't die of a disease," he said, walking to another room where intestines were uncoiled.

I didn't let up. "How did she die then?" I asked.

"I don't know," he grunted, feigning interest in a bloated spleen.

"How come you don't know? Did she commit suicide?"

"No, she didn't kill herself."

"Did someone kill her?"

He gave me a surprised look. "Yes, I think so," he said without drama, his hands folded in the small of his back, sauntering to another glass case.