“Wanted” was the word I chose
for him at age eight, drawing the face
of a bad guy with comic-book whiskers,
then showing it to my mother. This was how,after my father left us, I made her smile
at the same time I told her I missed him,
and how I managed to keep him close by
in that house of perpetual anger,becoming his accuser and his devoted
accomplice. I learned by writing
to negotiate between what I had,
and the more distant thing I dreamed of.
