Reprinted with permission of The Alliance for Young Artists & Writers.
In the spring of 2010 mom tells me something that dad doesn’t want to share yet. When I hear it, I cry. She tells me she doesn’t know why.
My father told me stories about lavish adventures, bike rides in the woods, forts by the beach. “I went up to Canada to stay with Bill,” my father tells me, one day. “I walked into his house and the first thing that I saw was a giant moose on the kitchen counter. My father used to hunt”, dad tells me now. “He would bring back all sorts of animals, clean them, and hang them in our basement to dry. Bill and I hated it, but I guess Bill had carried out the tradition. My brother has always had so much life in him. I hope someday you will meet him.”
