I never called you Dad.
Not Daddy. Father. Papa.
Which kept a somewhat safe distance between our hearts in the aftermath of divorce. We spent parts of weekends together as a part of a legal agreement.
You so desperately wanted me to understand you, to know you–the eccentric artist, the light-years-ahead-of-me poet, the Bohemian. And you spoiled me.
Bought me just what I wanted for breakfast (juice and gum).
Let me “shop” in the landlady’s basement for strange treasures. (I still have a jade ashtray that I apparently, in retrospect, stole).
Took one thousand (at least) pictures of me in black and white.…