She closed the book, placed it on the table, and finally, decided to walk through the door. The letter to her father protruded an inch or so from its leaves. He would be sure to see the “Daddy” boldly scrawled in black sharpie, emerging like a thorny stick from beside the spine. What would he do she wondered, without her there anymore? Would he miss her?  He used to not be so bad like this. He used to laugh, and he even tried once to teach her how to shoot Chicago Straight over at the 211.

The other night she actually caught him hiding from her, behind an old tree, like a five year old. Why was he like that? Perhaps he would be glad. Well not glad but, relieved in a way, not to have to be anything to anybody again. She would never really get it, how he…

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About m.a. wood

writer, thinker, musician, teacher
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