Sometimes at the end of the day when light of another day ebbs and stillness reigns. I think about my father and all that he was and all that he always wanted to be, and could never be. That strange mysterious man that I could never really understand but that instilled within me so much of himself that every day I discover more that I could have ever imagined about the two of us. My heart aches as I choke at the emptiness of this place without his insistent presence. He, always too pushy to invade my thoughts, to involve himself in everything about me that I felt so many times I had no recourse but to push him away. Now, it seems, I have succeeded. He is here no longer. And I am incalculably diminished by it. Oh what I would give to live under such an unwanted tyranny again of that bumbling old fool that thought of nothing but the present, himself and me.