by Sutton Strother Joey Nicotra My father hasn’t stopped talking about death since his heart attack. “When I die,” he says tonight, “I’ll die deciding whether to call out to you for help. I won’t trust what I feel in my body or the shift of the light or the hum in my brain as two distant planets align or whatever harbinger I get.” He says this in Swedish, which I think is the perfect language for death, and I tell him so. “Like a Bergman film,” I say in English. My father is