Permit this reader a moment of extreme autofiction fatigue: a longing for clearer genre guardrails. A little border edging ... Its 200-odd pages have a stop-and-start quality. But then haltedness is one of grief’s major hallmarks ... Is itself modest and shrugging — a tender shoot poking up through the gaudy foliage of fall publishing. It’s a consolation rather than a provocation, and occasionally darkly funny.
Reads with the intimacy of a memoir ... Short chapters trail off and are followed by an epilogue, but eventually, the narrator has no choice but to end the book, which has been a kind of memorial to the fathers who die on our watch.
