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Rockford, where my father saw flames explode from my mother’s hair, where he lost his attitude and appetite for drink, where he always said I love you
The one ingredient that all disasters seem to agree on—the proverbial roux in the gumbo—is an inequality of romantic intent.
Let me tell you about dependency. Not the vulgar physical kind—track marks, tremors, the bodily revolt—but something more insidious. A psychological topology where every interaction is mediated through this small, mathematically perfect oval.
Before you, in the tree that was at your back, there sits a snowy owl. You stop and stand there, looking at each other, two sets of eyes, yellow and brown. Two animals in the dark. Then he blinks, turns his head, and takes to the air. You stay there for a moment. You wonder what color your daughter’s eyes will be.
Surely, he must have been good in bed. He must have been SPECTACULAR, really, if I was so willing to haul ass up to Yonkers to sleep with him. You would be mistaken.
