My first memory of my father, in 1952, was of him on the other side of our kitchen door. I was 18 months old and sitting in the dark on our dining room floor, my eyes fixated on the thin yellow line of light under the door.
I could hear the electric percolator, and the water running in the sink. Eventually his lunchbox snapped shut. With a click the light went out. I thought he was leaving us. But he wasn’t. He stayed with us forever.
My final memory of my father was in 2008. I dreamed of a vast landscape at sunset. A wide band of sunlight above the trees grew thinner and thinner until it disappeared altogether.
The ringing of the phone startled me awake. I knew it was my brother at the hospital. He didn’t have to tell me. I already knew that our dad had passed.
My book is about everything in between these two memories, with some on both sides. The title, Affliction, is the word my father used when he was young to describe his sexual orientation.
It comes out July 13. I can’t wait for you to read it.