Some person, you’re suppose to love, you do but for no good reason. Well, you think of one reason and can label it as such: he’s your father. You ask yourself if that’s enough; if it should be enough; if there could be any amount of dislike that would make said love a moot point. Your mother says you don’t have to respect the man, the human being, but you must respect the position; as in, you must respect him as father; as one who loves you despite all the reasons- blaring, rash, blatant- that could, invariably, make you think otherwise. But, regardless, you struggle. You want to think all the arrogance, the anger, the hypocrisy won’t affect you. You want to think it’s nothing about you. But you cannot. You imagine him as some fairy-tale creature just to make it seem less harsh. He’s the Easter bunny, the tooth fairy, the big fat man with the jolly round waist and the jolly red cheeks. But that only works for so long. In the end, his putridity forces itself into our lives. You tell yourself to be calm, composed. You breathe. Look him in the eyes. And then breathe again.