I hold a photo of my father – on that last Remembrance Day – am awed by the person we never knew. Just fifteen, he
“Is that you father?” acquaintances would ask – voices deep and dreamy. Particular about his dress, meticulous in his grooming, Dad’s eyes sparkled oceans his
What mysteries lie in ancestral roots, what clues to illuminate the dysfunction that permeated our familial ties, cursed us with a pervasive sense of perversity?
Much planning involved in duplicity, when absence of feminine is intent – no amount of research can release her, buried in a home within a
A splash of icy water – first personal assault on an adopted persona – marked each day’s start. With military precision the lie, perpetuated since
I stare at the photo of my father, that last Remembrance Day, in awe of a person we never knew. Just fifteen, the awkwardly tall