From Chapter 2…
Copyright © 2011 Rebecca Wilson
Mostly, what happened to Dad seemed like a black and white movie, distant and flat; events that happened over there, away from me. But sometimes I remembered fragments: my sister keening, the feeling of being very cold, like I was falling and falling; the front steps of our house at 121 Seventh Avenue in the inner Richmond District of San Francisco, tiled in a black-and-white mosaic; two men dragging a half-conscious Lee up those same stairs and into the house, his head falling forward on his chest; somber men in suits standing guard over us in front of the house . . . This talk of my Dad’s death made me both eager and terrified; stories about his murder came in flashes and shocks, often by accident. Stories of his life were more complete, told to me over and over again, like favorite bedtime stories. Even now, his absence is a mystery. Sometimes I feel ridiculous in my curiosity, like the baby bird from the story, Did you know my father?
But I want to run away from it, for fear—if I come too close—his death will swallow me, too.
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Mostly, what happened to Dad seemed like a black and white movie, distant and flat; events that happened over there, away from me. But sometimes I remembered fragments: my sister keening, the feeling of being very cold, like I was falling and falling; the front steps of our house at 121 Seventh Avenue in the inner Richmond District of San Francisco, tiled in a black-and-white mosaic; two men dragging a half-conscious Lee up those same stairs and into the house, his head falling forward on his chest; somber men in suits standing guard over us in front of the house . . . This talk of my Dad’s death made me both eager and terrified; stories about his murder came in flashes and shocks, often by accident. Stories of his life were more complete, told to me over and over again, like favorite bedtime stories. Even now, his absence is a mystery. Sometimes I feel ridiculous in my curiosity, like the baby bird from the story, Did you know my father?
But I want to run away from it, for fear—if I come too close—his death will swallow me, too.
Read more