Dad’s gone again. In a rage, Mom tears up his photo. But then we try to put the pieces back together, afraid that he might never come back.
My dad looks at me but there’s not the slightest hint of recognition in his eyes. He chats to me politely, as he would do with any stranger.
On his deathbed, a father that had abandoned me asked for stories of my childhood and his grandchildren. In my anger, I told him everything.
I don’t care what the papers say. I don’t care if he did it ten times over. He’s the only dad I have.
Before leaving for work, he caresses his newborn who suddenly holds his finger in a tiny hand. He’s touched & helpless. Meeting is postponed.
“Hi Papa,” she says. “I have your Father’s Day gift.” Sobbing, she spits a wet gob of phlegm against his headstone. “See you next year.”