The Family (After Completion)
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 light from 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 live another fifty years, I hope it’s true. I don’t need to contradict him.