Chapter 72

But this afternoon, I couldn’t remember Dad’s face. I stood there, pastry brush in hand, quiet and still, my mind sifting through memories, frantic to find a picture of him, a clear image of his facial features. My father. Ourfather. Who art in Heaven.

Is he? Does Heaven exist? Will I see him again? Will I finally get to sit down with Dad and tell him that I’ve always loved him, though we never understood each other in life? That there isn’t a day when I don’t have a thought for him or say a prayer for my maker? The one who made me. Who mademe.

Why would God tie two men in blood, father and son, and then never intervene as they grow apart year after year, until there’s nothing left but the blood between them to prove that they’d once been linked?

I think of that blood. I have no sons or daughters to pass it on to. A young man or woman will never stand in his or her kitchen, pastry brush in hand, crying silently over me. Over a father they loved.