This is the second in a series of posts where I recall some memories of earlier in my life. Think of it as memoirs no one wants to read. The memories are as accurate as I can make them, though they may be slightly embellished due to faded memory, and
I am going to write a series of posts where I recount memories. They may be slightly embellished or multiple memories merged together, but will be completely accurate in their essence. It was the day we were to leave for the feast in Dayton, Ohio. The feast (or Festival of
Today is Father’s Day, at least in my country. On two levels, Father’s Day means nothing to me. On one level, it’s a fake holiday that I’m betting was created because of fathers feeling left out due to Mother’s Day. I have little to no respect for fake Hallmark holidays.
I have a very good memory. Too good, in fact. Every minute of every day I am assaulted by memories. Some are good, some are bad, some are embarrassing, and some are traumatic. Some are just dreams of a world that should be and isn’t. But I can’t shut then
My memories of my father are incredibly conflicted – and as the time since his death recedes they only become more conflicted. Truth be told, he was also a conflicted person, though I don’t think he understands exactly how conflicted he was. He kept his own counsel. I often wonder