I don't really remember him. I wish I did, but I don't. I have memories that I think are real, but they're limited to what's printed on the photo paper. Me strumming his guitar; me running around in milk bags over my diaper while he watches bemusedly, me clomping around in his cork boots. I don't remember anything beyond the edges of the paper. I can't say why I was doing those thing, unless they're things I was told about. I do remember going to the neighbors to get juice, and getting yelled at. He was alive then, but I don't remember him. It seems unfair to remember the neighbor, the juice, and the yelling - yet not him. I do remember being in my mom's room helping her put coats on the bed, because lots of people were over and had brought baking. I remember that she tried to explain something to me, but not what it was. I remember tears on her face, but I don't remember knowing why. I know now. It can't be easy to explain to a 6 year old that his daddy is never coming home. http://ficlets.com/feed/story/15148