It was strange how little I’d thought of Dad in the two years he’d been gone. I’d never written or called, even on holidays. As we turned into the parking lot in front of his small cinder-block church, its lawn a competition between leggy azaleas and crabgrass, it hit me that I’d hurt him, that I’d woven myself so tightly in my own role as abandoned that I couldn’t consider what lay beyond its knitted pattern.
these flashbacks are progressively ripping me up
