I guess I understand that after the stroke my father was desperate for a place to hide. He had f’d up at a lot of things and couldn’t stand on his own any more and my mother was too desperate herself to be able to hold him up. I had just had our family’s first grandbaby and my brother had them in debt to their last penny to build his own house in the Islands, by his own hand, and my little sister had just gotten herself shot in the foot by a madman at a nightclub who shot into the crowd.
A little while later I encouraged him to write, as I saw him flailing about. With my father I am always helping him even while he is so very cruel to me. I can’t seem to put the two things together in my mind. So the writing became his hiding place, to his destruction. He idles in his study going over and over the very same words day after day. I wish I could help them. But right now all I can do is hammer on them for all the did to me during those precious baby years and toddler years and youngster years and teen years, when I needed to shine for my own son.
So I’ll pray. Yes, I’ll pray.