Kyle McCord In Germany When my father called, I felt remorseful for not calling my father. He sounded calm as he always sounds. It may be some link in the chain binding us to ensure we understand how to care for each other. I mean how to call each other with the regularity necessary. He is a good father and also good at calling. Last week, two demoniacs spun in opposite circles at the circus. My head was swimming, and I wanted to call but Michael wanted pancakes, and I wanted pancakes. I told my father all of this because what else do I have? In Germany, there are researchers dedicated to reconstructing files from the Stazi headquarters. After the shredders broke, the Stazi worked night and day tearing files by hand for three months before the wall came down. Imagine this: sometimes the researchers piece together a shred, and there is an observation of their mother on the couch unwinding a lamp chord, say, dusting off the table top, while the record is skipping. And the son or daughter becomes the officer for a second, retyping the orderliness of the mother in the entry log. I want to tell you all what this means, but I can’t stop imagining a woman calling her mother describing a day: November 5th 1976 when her mother unwound a lamp chord, dusted off a table. The mother soaked in a tub. She stared a long time at someone ringing the bell outside. And in the November snow, she could make out the coat of her daughter, as she rang the bell over and over, awaiting the mother’s voice.