I have thoughts nearing a life without contact. He’ll always be my father, people say. They’re right. He will always be the father. My father.
There were some good moments. I recall one here:
We were rocking out to Billy Joel’s My Life in the station wagon. All of us, my sister, father, and I, had fake microphones. Oh how we wished them to be the real thing. Claire’s, a hair brush. Mine, the push-in automotive cigarette lighter. His, I can’t seem to remember.
In the end, despite the burnt thumb from the lighter that shouldn’t have been fuming, we had a great time. Our voices reached higher that day. Out from the station wagon, into the streets. Billy Joel would’ve been proud.