Someday, I’m going to be able to write about my dad. I know the world is not sitting around waiting for this Great Work, but since it’s something I’ve long felt compelled to do, an internal deadline is looming. I’ve made a few attempts to write about that very complicated dude over the years, but inevitably, something more enjoyable—like getting a root canal—pulls me away from the keyboard and I don’t go back. I have folders and files labeled Bob.1, Bob.2… Bob.36… I’m like a mouse, nibbling at the edges of a cracker that’s fallen to the floor. I take little bites then run back to my hiding place; not yet ready to haul the whole thing off to share with my mouse friends.
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