#62 I Can’t Wish You Happy Father’s Day

by Lucinda Kempe

Mama told me you used a gun. Later I discovered that you’d used a belt. I have to be honest. What a thing to do to your own mama in her own house. I got to know her. While she might have been three jumps ahead of the sheriff as Mama always said, she did something for me neither you nor Mama ever did.

She left me money, money from the sale of the very house where you hanged yourself in my fifteenth year.

I used it well. I packed my bags, got on a plane and went to live fifteen hundred miles away from the memory of what you did, Mama did and didn’t do, and all that heart-rending history.

So Daddy every Father’s Day, I don’t think of you. Instead, I remember your mama and what she did for me.

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