The smell of cigarette smoke brings me back to him.
We played sports together. All kinds. Basketball, tennis, running. He had as much athletically neurotic, anxious energy to burn as I do.
He would play the lottery and floss with religious regularity.
He judged other people by their penmanship, and never by their cars.
He told me my singing would get me nowhere, and raised me on Phantom and Lea Salonga.
He molested me. Nightly. For years. He snuck into my childhood bedroom and did things to me that I still cannot talk about.
He hurt Me. A lot. And He left.
A camera, a cigarette, and running shoes. That was my father.
Sometimes he is. And sometimes - on better days - he was.