To a child, my father and I would spend

 

To the most of the world, my father was a
historian. However, I always thought he was an explorer. My father would often
venture out into the unknown for months on end before returning home to his
family.

 

I remember as a child, my father and I would
spend every moment of the summer season on the sparkling white sand of the
beach near our house. We would lie on our backs and stare into the sky, until
the swirling clouds began to take on abstract shapes. My earliest memories are
filled with images of my father in these moments, laughing as he chased me
along the shore. And, now as I stand on the same beach, feeling the same heat
radiating on my skin, almost ten years later, I can’t help but contemplate the
thought of him.

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My father; an unusual sixty-year-old man, was
passing through a phase of trying to extract meaning from his jail cell. We were
to embark a new chapter of our life, where we would witness real life criminals
walking down the halls of ‘fame’ in which was the hallway that led my family
and I to see my father once again. My father and I had a bond like no other, I
guess I took it for granted. Now all I see is a father; a man and human who
made a mistake, or should I say many mistakes and is now facing the
consequences. As I sit across from my father, wearing nothing but a fluorescent
orange jumpsuit, covered from head to toe, I begin to wonder the struggles and
battles faced upon living in prison.

 

Must my father forget that I am his daughter, I
come from the same aching blood, from the same bone so desperate for attention
and love that I collapse in on myself. When he calls me, there is never nothing
in particular that needs to be said, he tends to ask me what I’m doing or where
I am. And then when the silence stretches for what feels to be a lifetime
between us, I tend to scramble to find questions to keep the conversation
going. The world can sometimes be a horrible place; a world of oblivion.