Father

My father gave me the greatest gift anyone could give another person, he believed in me.

I was dying. Of course. This was it. Curtain. Finis. I dropped to my knees on the sidewalk and prayed to Jesus for another crack at life. But then I became confused, unable to recall who Jesus’s father was. Why this should have been important I can’t venture to guess, but it got me on the subject of fathers. I realized, with an incredible sensation of vertigo, I was old enough to be my own father.

It is easier for a father to have children than for children to have a real father.

"And everything else will then turn out to be unimportant and inessential except this: father, child, and love. And then, looking at the simplest things, we will all say, Could we have not learned this long ago? Has this not always been embedded in everything that is?"

You are my child, as I am your father. Together we are the family of thoughts. The power of love connects us all together with everything that exists.

(I) wondered how my father could have such eyes and be so blind.  I hated to consider it, but maybe he had no seeing left for us.

Sometimes I try to remember things my mother told me about the awful way he was raised.  But why does he have to keep on going?  Why would you take something bad out of your mouth and hand it to another, saying, Here, eat this?

If you do something for the first time, you will always remember it. If your Dad has something to do with it, you write about it.