I don't remember my dad. Now, I don't like pity stories; I don't like condolences; I don't like whines. That is not what I'm trying to get at nor would I wish that I be imposed as someone who is, or desires, any of these things. I'm just stating a fact about myself.
There wasn't a single picture in the house, nor a single reminder still intact for me to make one of my own. My blurry memories cluster so finely together I can't get any farther then a bright smile and a smell, which fades with every passing minute; a potent foresty and woody fragrance. I always try and fantasize what he would be like if was still here with us. Maybe then our family would be whole.
I wonder if he'd have loved me like my mother never seemed to.
