|
To all my Fathers.
To Bill, my Mother's second Husband. The man who signed my birth certificate, but coldly denied being my Father when I tracked him down halfway across the country. He said I represented a painful period in his life, and said he hoped he never heard from me again.
To Russ, who legally adopted me, when he ran off with the woman across the street, but discovered that he wanted to come back, and be my Mom's husband again. I guess it was better than being the divorced man who lost his money. To the man who refused to sign my paperwork for a college scholarship, dooming me to struggle for 15 years afterward to get to college. You called me a lazy slob. Does it make you happy to know I worked myself almost to death twice? Be satisfied to know that I am still a slob.
To Leonard Payne, who I never met, but whom my Mother finally named, on her death bed as my Father. I never tried very hard to find you, because when you lose something intangible, but essential like the word Father twice, you can't always work up the courage to try a third time.
And to those men who I looked at growing up, and wished were my Father. To Jack Fein, to John Mackey, and even Armand Mick, my best friend Alan's dad. You all helped me understand what it meant to have a Father, even if none of you were *my* Father, I learned from all of you, and felt love and admiration for you.
If I become a Father in the time remaining to me, I promise to make sure my child knows that they had a Father who loved them. I may not be able to give them all I desire, but I can let them know they were loved and wanted. I can't claim to know much about Fatherhood, but I do think what I do know is right.
|