To the most of the world, my father was ahistorian. However, I always thought he was an explorer. My father would oftenventure out into the unknown for months on end before returning home to hisfamily.
I remember as a child, my father and I wouldspend every moment of the summer season on the sparkling white sand of thebeach near our house. We would lie on our backs and stare into the sky, untilthe swirling clouds began to take on abstract shapes. My earliest memories arefilled with images of my father in these moments, laughing as he chased mealong the shore.
And, now as I stand on the same beach, feeling the same heatradiating on my skin, almost ten years later, I can’t help but contemplate thethought of him. My father; an unusual sixty-year-old man, waspassing through a phase of trying to extract meaning from his jail cell. We wereto embark a new chapter of our life, where we would witness real life criminalswalking down the halls of ‘fame’ in which was the hallway that led my familyand I to see my father once again. My father and I had a bond like no other, Iguess I took it for granted.
Now all I see is a father; a man and human whomade a mistake, or should I say many mistakes and is now facing theconsequences. As I sit across from my father, wearing nothing but a fluorescentorange jumpsuit, covered from head to toe, I begin to wonder the struggles andbattles faced upon living in prison. Must my father forget that I am his daughter, Icome from the same aching blood, from the same bone so desperate for attentionand love that I collapse in on myself.
When he calls me, there is never nothingin particular that needs to be said, he tends to ask me what I’m doing or whereI am. And then when the silence stretches for what feels to be a lifetimebetween us, I tend to scramble to find questions to keep the conversationgoing. The world can sometimes be a horrible place; a world of oblivion.