I stood slumped into the corner of two converging granite counter tops, struggling to focus on what he's remembering next—some bland anecdote or an irrelevant detail: Larson, I think, he says finally.
Between pauses—with small, contemplating eyes set deep, split by his dark, Italian nose— and dragged uhhh's and hmmm's, a sowed adoration splits and grows, a seed (a supernova now). A man—half my connection to this world, to existence, to a trickling, patient bloodline.
He, I; a rambling, scatterbrained mess of neurons and hard-wiring, sparks and electrical fires. My father: plagued by anger and impatience, a sitcom of clumsiness and a tied-tongue, blessed by conviction, faith and reason.
I don't say any of this. He'll die first, never knowing how easily I'm reminded of what I am to become, 32 years from now, unless he finds me drunk, perhaps after reciting vows, now vulnerable to cheapening emotion into language.