Saturday, May 16, 2009

The Evidence of a Father

I grew up surrounded by the evidence of a father who died before I could remember him. Visits to his grave, photographs of him, his paintings, his brushes, his tubes of paint, his drawing tools, his books, the table he built and meticulously decorated, the sofa he made from the front seat of a Chevy, the lamp he made, and always the stories about him from my mother, my aunts, and my uncles. He was dead, but something about him was in every room and the very structure of that house, as real as the walls and doors. Death leaves an absence, but it transforms what remains.

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