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I was around 12-years-old when my father took time off from his day job as a traveling absentee father, and arranged to finally meet the most handsome and best-smelling of his nine abandoned children.
The meeting place was my childhood home on a bright, sunny, summer afternoon. I remember feeling a roiling storm of contradictory emotions: hurt and anticipation, anger and curiosity. More than anything else, I looked forward to unloading 12 years of playing-catch-with-a-brickwall animus on its deserving progenitor.
The meeting place was my childhood home on a bright, sunny, summer afternoon. I remember feeling a roiling storm of contradictory emotions: hurt and anticipation, anger and curiosity. More than anything else, I looked forward to unloading 12 years of playing-catch-with-a-brickwall animus on its deserving progenitor.
