Parents are funny people, just like a far off storm, perfect in their construction and majestic awe as a child, strong and vast as an ocean, only in adulthood can you look back and see the fear, the danger and threat they possess.

The first memory I have of my father is not a pleasant one, lifted above his shoulders at the fourth of July celebration, I was five, loud noises surround my body, shake me deep within, alone in a black world of memory I remember felling the first time alone though these are my first memories I will never forget wanting so badly to hold his hand and cry a hundred sweet tears in his sleeve. Black skies filled with bright lights and sparks flew high above our heads, people screaming and I alone a top the shoulders of a faceless man. A tiny boy in the black sparkling sky, loud everywhere from all angles I see the noise spark, flames and men walking; moustaches and cowboy hats, red white and blue fire around my head all this commotion and alone I was so, alone.  My father was a face less man the first few years of my life the mysterious ghost spoken in bedtime stories; maybe it is in my mind a memory to hold onto to allow anyone to fill his missing space in my heart. He left when I was so young maybe I just forgot his face and now a bright whiteness fills the gap.

When I arrived back from summer break to find a Mother lost, I found a new man in my fathers place. He was the man to fill the empty face the sun spot blistered photos, the caring arms.  My mother wanted but could not bring herself to speak of a new start. It was three years after my father left that He began to appear and one day he never left. He, Mr. Black, could never fill that space. Not even if he had wanted to, that I knew was not my father, though his image would return in more memories forgotten than the original father combined.

I was seven years old when my father left, he was inspirited with the power of words, a soft-spoken happy man, and brilliance in words flowed from his lips and warmth filled us all. A heavy drink and irresponsible mind lead to his downfall. One day all that remained were the words he spoke and a letter left to explain the rhythm followed by his life. Mr. Elliot of Arms I have been told they would call him, he taught creative writing, surprised I believe he would be I am writing here. I still receive word of his life but never directly, I forget the sound in his voice but even in this age declining I hear the words all the same.

My mother god bless her tried so damn hard

The End

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