Un-fiction.

When I think of my father I think about food. I remember looking forward all December to his special Christmas ham. It was brown sugar encrusted and pinned with cherries and pineapple rings. Every boyfriend I bothered bringing to his home, I would brag to about how my father made the best homemade spaghetti sauce in all the world. He would make me cheesecake every year for my birthday, and I swear his crust is still the sweetest I've ever felt crumble on my tongue. When he was in the kitchen, something would just happen right.

When I think of my father I think how my mother used to tell me we were alike. Both throwing in all emotion to every fight. To every love even. I remember how he would yell at her. And when I've done it myself--now, later, after the battle--it's because I thought she was weak. I didn't ever want to be the one at home alone or worse--cowered or crying. When she became a single mom, it's the one thing I swore never to be. Functioning alcoholics have an amazing capacity of giving the appearance of stability. And when my father walked away from our home, I thought it was because he was the strong party.

When I think of my father I think of his youth. How at the age of 22 he had a 13 year old stepdaughter. By 24, there was me. It must have been a lot to handle for anyone, and his life before it hadn't been easy. I wonder what kind of scars we all incidentally bring into our adulthood, even as we're making children and trying to follow dreams.

I turn 25 in six months. When my father turned 25 near my six month birthday, I wonder how much he felt like me.