Write about your father.
My father. I've often wondered what that word really means.
On the rare occasion that I do speak of my father, I'm talking about my adoptive father. The man who raised me.
I knew absolutely nothing about my biological father until a year ago, when my biological mother came to Chicago looking for me. His name was Cody Boone and he was fourteen years old when he impregnated Helen--my mother. She showed me a wrinkled old picture of him; he looked so young, which of course he was. I often wondered if he ever wanted to keep me. If he ever thought about me at all. Helen said that he's been dead for years now, so I'll never get any of those answers.
The man I consider to be my father was Lawrence Weaver. He, along with my mother Sharon, raised me from infancy. Dad was the protector; the one who would defend his disabled daughter and deaf wife to all of our neighbors and everyone else in town who regarded our family as "crazy" or "dysfunctional." He took care of us and loved us unconditionally, taking up every job he could find just so we could get by.
He used tell me stories late at night or early in the morning, before Mama would get up. He'd talk about his childhood and tell me horrific tales of when he fought in the war. Half the time I couldn't tell where the truth ended and the true storytelling began. He loved to tell his own stories, but prided himself on the wild crap he would spontaneously make up, right on the spot. I looked up to my father in an almost God-like way. He was my teacher, my confidante. He was my rock, and I was often his.
He and my mother died in a car accident when I was fourteen. I not only lost my caregiver, but also my best friend. I hope he knows what I have done with my life, and I hope he's proud of me.
On the rare occasion that I do speak of my father, I'm talking about my adoptive father. The man who raised me.
I knew absolutely nothing about my biological father until a year ago, when my biological mother came to Chicago looking for me. His name was Cody Boone and he was fourteen years old when he impregnated Helen--my mother. She showed me a wrinkled old picture of him; he looked so young, which of course he was. I often wondered if he ever wanted to keep me. If he ever thought about me at all. Helen said that he's been dead for years now, so I'll never get any of those answers.
The man I consider to be my father was Lawrence Weaver. He, along with my mother Sharon, raised me from infancy. Dad was the protector; the one who would defend his disabled daughter and deaf wife to all of our neighbors and everyone else in town who regarded our family as "crazy" or "dysfunctional." He took care of us and loved us unconditionally, taking up every job he could find just so we could get by.
He used tell me stories late at night or early in the morning, before Mama would get up. He'd talk about his childhood and tell me horrific tales of when he fought in the war. Half the time I couldn't tell where the truth ended and the true storytelling began. He loved to tell his own stories, but prided himself on the wild crap he would spontaneously make up, right on the spot. I looked up to my father in an almost God-like way. He was my teacher, my confidante. He was my rock, and I was often his.
He and my mother died in a car accident when I was fourteen. I not only lost my caregiver, but also my best friend. I hope he knows what I have done with my life, and I hope he's proud of me.