Category Archives: Father

Yorkville

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It’s almost as though you think life is a game. It’s one big fun palace where no one gets hurt, or cries, or dies. I told you to hold on tight and you do that thing where you “act” as though you’re holding on tight, and I repeated, Hold on, boy. This isn’t a game. If you don’t hold on you will get hurt. Hold on. And you tightened your grip and Jared sent you down the hill, soaring past the stand-still moms, soaring past pink-jacket brunette, soaring toward the oh-my-god Continue reading Yorkville

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In an old book, the day my son was born

PhotobucketPhoto by Lindsay Branson

“That sound I know, familiar in its noise.
Some left, some right, a constant tapping shoe.
The rain, it seems, distracted by the toys;
My window pane and ceilings made of you.”

18 January 2006

It was written on the East side of 25th street at 11:45pm. My son was sleeping at the hospital and I was alone in bed, Continue reading In an old book, the day my son was born

Shock & Awe

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Yeah, your teachers told me today that you’re a terror. No, they didn’t use that word, but when I went in that morning to ask them to keep an eye on you when you play with Michael (because of the little red marks, black and blue marks, and scabs on your arm), they told me it wasn’t Michael. It seems you are the one who pushes, hits, grabs, and bullies the other children.

The night before I asked how you got Continue reading Shock & Awe

Rafael: ongoing

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Additions, to list of the things you do that you will most probably ask me about at some point and I will probably forget at some point. I remember asking my Mom, what was I like when I was a kid, and she remembered a couple things here and there but nothing as detailed as I would have wanted. So in case you are as detailed as me….

-You say “what happened” all the time. You use it as a substitute for “what” “why” and “how.”
“Okay Raf, we’re turning off the movie get ready for bed.”
“What happened?”

-You called a chocolate bar a chocolate stick.

-I put you in timeout Continue reading Rafael: ongoing

Rafael: Ongoing

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You don’t like when people talk to me. Correction. You don’t like when women talk to me—correction, you don’t like when women I don’t know, talk to me.

You do it at the park. You do it at restaurants. You do it on the streets. You start saying Daddy. Daddy. And you’re looking at me, first slightly irritated, then increasingly scared. You say my name, and stare at the woman talking to me. The woman has no choice but to stop talking and look at your two big eyes. And that’s when you stick your finger in your nose. (Another form of defense.) Continue reading Rafael: Ongoing