my father. Looking out my bedroom window, I’m thinking of him most of all. I can see the cherry trees he planted all along the side of the house because he knew how much mom loved the blossoms. The cherries were sour. He made them into tarts. I can almost see him sitting on the wooden fence around the paddock. Long black hair. Sun-faded shirt. Jeans loose on his hips. But I can only picture him from behind. I can’t see his face.
