This is a story about how my grandparents fell to their knees and wept
when they learned of Anne Frank’s death. Then they set up an altar
made out of their own two bodies and held each other in bed, praying
over that altar until the sun went down and the moon took its place.
I have calculated the total number of minutes I have spent thinking
about you, and the number is too large to even put into words.
When you look up the word “fathom” in the dictionary, it will say
that I could not fathom how much I thought about you.
In calculus the other day we put together a simple algebraic equation
for love. The number of minutes you spend thinking about someone
plus the number of ounces their heart weighs, times 53, and that
equals love. I must love you
pretty goddamn much more than it is possible to love anything.
Anne Frank must have longed for Peter Schiff
like a wolf longs to eat its prey.
She must have wanted to consume him, entire.
Maybe that’s why my grandparents wept so hard for her.