6:13 AM - Jan. 10, 2004
morning dark, boy sitting near the heater vent in his red flannel pajamas and i have five minutes to type. my network card goes from green to off, ephemeral as a moment with an easy breath. i think back to a morning with my father, back in chicago when i got up and he wasn't home yet. i was used to mornings like that: winter cold, ice in the crevices of our front window, and the plan for breakfast was reading the side panel of the Frosted Flakes box and wondering what i was missing when i ate them without milk. i was used to having no Dad for most of the day. it wasn't like he talked to me. and i never thought he knew who i was. but Dad came home, and he was happy for once, and he looked at me the way i look at my son now when i think i've typed too much and not hugged him enough. but my Dad was not the hugging type. he asked me what do you want for breakfast? i won last night, so we get to eat and i would say donuts and he would say get dressed. but when we drove off i knew we were not heading to donuts. this is better my dad said. and he drove up to this stand and the sign said White Castle and he said give me twenty. 15 regular and five no pickle. my son doesn't like pickle. and i sat there, all ten years old and i sit here, all thirty-three years old and feel bright as that morning.
