A photo of my father shows him laughing, his glasses off,his head back, his eyes nearly shut as though the light were bright,but I took this photo without a flash. The lightfrom the kitchen window gives his rough face a deep orange cast.I love this man, whether he’s laughing or speaking harshly,for all he’s done and all he is, his mysterious heritage,his love of science fiction, sixty-nine years old,married to my mother for fifty years, raised four kids,worked hard—airplane mechanic, radar technician, welder,diesel mechanic, plumber, electrician—he can say anything he wants,say he’s an anarchist not a Republican, say he’ll liveanother fifty years, I hope it’s true. I don’t need to contradict him.
