The Story of My Father
I want to tell you the story of my father.
Even as I begin I am certain of my failure, left with the empty certitude of knowing the narrowness of my understanding, the limitations of my memory. Whatever details of his life I might recount, they are already shaded, coloured by what came after, developed with the chemicals of remembering which produce an accuracy that only further indicts their deficiencies. My father appears to me now as if through the eye of a keyhole, a lingering shadow on a far wall, a one-sided conversation, a past which is obstructed by the stubbornness of my selfishness and childish innocence.
