My father has been dead for 13 years. He was a good guy. He was a bastard. He was human. He was my dad. I have a single picture of him, kept in the back of a book. I have never had the impulse to display or frame it. It’s not a particularly good picture. But it’s what he looked like when he was healthy, and I’d rather remember that than the dessicated husk my family forced me to view... Read more