Many years ago my roommate Jean-Guy took me up the street to a bar, Le Minuit, for a night of alcoholic consumption. I was 22, too poor and too young for the place, which attracted an older and wealthier portion of the francophone branché(e)s. Some way through the evening, a woman came up to me, trying to strike up a conversation. Can’t remember much of what she said, but I do recall at one point she remarked, “You know, you have great lips.” Taken somewhat aback and at a loss for words, I replied, “Well, I got them from my father.” At which point she takes a closer look, realises that I was way too young, even for her, brushes my hair and asks, “Really? Is your father single?”
I found out tonight that my father passed away some time in the past week, date unknown. He died alone, but then, I’ve learned, we all do. He and I hadn’t spoken in over 10 years, for reasons either lost in the mists of time or simply too banal to even mention.
Born on February 29, he was the ripe of age of 17 (68).
He wasn’t the greatest of fathers, by any stretch of the imagination, but I like to think that he did the best he could with what he had.
This picture (click for bigger image) was taken in 1983, the last time we ever really did anything together, a hiking trip to the White Mountains in New Hampshire.