Sometimes I conjure up the dead. Not in that new age sorta way, but inmemory. I just sit down and remember faces, smiles, words and voices from people who aren’t with me anymore. My paternal grandfather: wisps of white hair, freckled skinned. Every wrinkle burned in memory. The way I was half disgusted with his breakfast routine – the gnawing on the brown sugar stump and the sipping – slurping? – of his coffee. I don’t feel sadness when I think of them. I just need to hear their voices again in order to remember how real they were. That they existed before they didn’t. That’s a hard concept. To exist and then not to exist. If I believed in a heaven, they’d exist somewhere else.…