My father read poetry to me, encouraged me to memorize poems. But the writing of it was quite a different thing.
There are people who recall my father as a saint and a monster. I’m quite sure I will share the same fate.
I talk to my kids about my mother’s energy and how she would have loved them. I talk about how kind and polite my father was. So that they have some kind of remembrance that even though my parents died from their addictions and so that they know they were genuine in how they were.
My parents had to go to Ohio to get married in 1965 because it was still illegal in Mississippi. My white father and black mother.
Time is the father of truth, its mother is our mind.
Freud is the father of psychoanalysis. It had no mother.
It doesn’t matter who my father was; it matters who I remember he was.
My father didn’t know his last name. My father got his last name from his grandfather, and his grandfather got it from his grandfather who got it from the slavemaster.
We are the spirit children of a Heavenly Father. He loved us and He taught us before we were born into this world. He told us that He wished to give us all that He had. To qualify for that gift we had to receive mortal bodies and be tested. Because of those mortal bodies, we would face pain, sickness, and death.
I’ll meet the raging of the skies, but not an angry father.